


dream a little dream of me

by g_uttertrash



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Inception, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry, Con Artists, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Facials, False Accusations, Inspired by a Movie, Jealous Louis, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Multi, Polyamory, Rich Harry, Some Fluff, Some Humor, White Collar Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2328068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g_uttertrash/pseuds/g_uttertrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” he finally says, crumpling a wrapper and throwing it into one of the bags. They’re parked on the side of the road overlooking a field about five miles away, the windows down, one of Louis’ mixtapes playing classic Bowie while birds twitter outside, hopping along the low fence. </p><p>“Where to next?”</p><p>Zayn glances back, grinning as he slides his sunglasses back on. “Let’s get the gang back together, yeah?”</p><p>“Excellent,” Louis says, looking out the window. He smiles. “I love reunion tours.” </p><p>(or, Inception AU where Louis and his team of extractors steal secrets from the heads of corporations for money until a job goes horribly wrong and they have to bring in someone new: a fresh-faced uni student named Harry Styles).</p>
            </blockquote>





	dream a little dream of me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liquidsilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsilver/gifts).



> I'm sooooo sorry it took me so long to write this, I am truly the worst, but I really hope you like it and that I got some of the Arthur/Eames-ish type banter in there (I tried, but when I try too hard it tends to not actually be funny :/). I just really really hope you like this and think I did your prompt justice and don't mind some of the stuff I put in there, I wanted to do a lot more with this and might in the future, but we'll see. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out anyway! Fluff is my kryptonite, so sorry for the massive amounts of cheese in advance; I'm just a huge sucker for a happy ending. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much to Leah for putting this all on, it was such a huge undertaking and I think you pulled it off spectacularly, despite all the craziness!! Also thanks to my beta reader, K. You know who you are. Any mistakes that are present are my fault, mostly because I decided to edit this while really tired. 
> 
> Also, I really like watches. As you (soon) might be able to tell. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I obviously don't own One Direction or anyone affiliated with them, nor do I own anything remotely connected with Christopher Nolan's world of Inception. I just like writing fic, man. **Also:** if you haven't seen Inception, you might not understand some of what's going on so you might want to watch the film first. 
> 
> Title is from Mama Cass's song of the same name. Enjoy ❤

Louis wakes up on an island. No, that’s not right. It isn’t just any island, it’s _the_ island. Theirs.

The sand is a soft white stretching before him, curving around to an enormous rock up ahead standing tall in the golden afternoon light, verdant areas of jungle crowding its cliffs and base. The waves gently rush up on the beach, tugging gently at his bare toes and the hem of his pants, the cuffs rolled up six inches above his ankles. He doesn’t know where his shoes are, only that they’re gone. Sand clings to his fingers, his cheeks, and his light blue shirt is soaked through to transparency.

He sits up as birds fly overhead, their voices sharp and high in the breeze. Salty drops of dew hang along strands of his hair and he shakes them back from his face, running a hand through the mess. His skin is damp and he can taste summer on his lips.

Louis hears a tiny cough from his right and he turns. There’s a plain wooden chaise lounge there beneath a colorful umbrella, its panels all pastels. On the lounge is a floral-print cushion, and sprawled on that is a boy with a book, hair tied back from his face with a silk scarf, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He’s shirtless, wearing only peach shorts. A chilled drink sweats in his hand. 

“Well, that certainly was interesting,” Louis says. “But really, darling, the beach? How cliché.”

The boy looks up, pretty petal lips splitting into a wide grin.

* * *

_  
A Year Earlier_

Louis always goes out to celebrate jobs well done. Always. That celebration usually consists of some combination of alcohol and the cutest boy he can find from where he sits on the balcony in the bar, above the rest of the patrons, watching them move. From up there, he can see everything about them: what they did that day, where they came from, what they’re drinking, and whether or not they’re taking their dance partner home.

The job That Time was Symphonic Enterprises. Their client, Greg James, was in communications and a rival company, Barnett-Brigham-Chadwick-Prime, headed by notorious Nick Grimshaw, was eating up his business, taking too much of a bite out of the market with their new merger and their change in management. Over a month-long period, Louis and his team had followed and watched Grimshaw, building a profile on him, learning everything they could: where he frequented, what he wore, the way he moved, what he was like. And when they were ready, they covertly followed him onto a train and tapped into his mind using a PASIV, the machine that allowed them to filter the street-version of the drug Somnacin through their bloodstream and share dreams.

Simple, really. Textbook extraction.

Now the music is throbbing through Louis’ veins and he’s three drinks deep, his body feeling loose and warm, his skin prickling with a familiar desire. His mouth tastes like the sharp bite of alcohol and cherries, the fruit still rolling over his tongue. He bites into it with relish, teeth hitting the pit.

He leaves his drink on the balcony, the cherry pit inside. He leaves his table, leaves his coat hanging from the back of his chair. He unbuttons his sleeves as he walks, calmly rolling them up to his elbow, flashing the Vacheron Constantin watch on his wrist. Normally, he doesn’t wear it; it’s part of a collection he keeps and is far too precious (and expensive) to flout. But their job against Grimshaw required he use it; he’s the type of person to judge someone by their wealth. It helped to add to Louis’ appearance and credibility as he assumed the identity of the fictional Mr. Charles, a dangerous technique used by the best that involves clueing the mark in to the fact that they’re dreaming. Such is the life of an extractor.

After all, as they all know: You are only as good as the part that you play.

The music changes as he descends, darkening into something sultry with an undercurrent like the beat of a heart. He can feel it rushing through him like the ghost of wind and it sets every one of his nerve endings alight. He joins the pulsing crowd, the panels of the floor changing colors, blue and purple shining around him and turning his white silk shirt into a kaleidoscope. He reaches for the nearest guy, the one he’d been eyeing from the balcony with the chocolate eyes and wavy hair.

Louis dances. He lets loose, twisting and grinding in the hands of someone new every few minutes or so. They’re all fine, very sexy, on holiday from uni or work, spending their parents’ hard-earned cash and not speaking a word of English. And that’s _fine_. That’s what Louis wants, someone he can fuck and forget. That’s the grand finale to every job they complete and this time is no different.

Until it is.

After about forty-five minutes of dancing, Louis is parched and he half-stumbles to the bar, holding up two fingers to get the bartender’s attention. He’s busy flirting with a brunette down at the end of the bar and Louis sighs, slumping against one of the spinning chairs there. He knows he should go, that Zayn wanted him back in their hotel by midnight, but he has a system and Zayn can be _such_ a mother sometimes. What Louis wants—and needs—right now is decidedly less maternal, and he’s thinking it’s going to be the Greek man still tossing him flirty looks from the dancefloor.

“Don’t you hate when they ignore you?” a voice pipes up from beside him. It’s surprisingly deep and perky for the late hour, as though this person has just woken up from a long sleep.

Louis nods, not turning to look. Why bother? He’s already made his choice, it’s quite clear that—

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy, but is _that_ a Vacheron Constantin?”

Louis looks up. Slowly, he turns. Sitting there with his legs crossed, primly sipping a drink through the thin straw, is a guy clearly younger than him but obviously old enough to drink—or master of a particularly passable fake I.D. He has chestnut brown curls for days, the bulk of them bound back from his face with a flamboyant Hermès silk twill scarf in shades of pale pink, white, cream, and green, green like his big, luminous eyes. Just looking at him, Louis can tell: born into wealth and the life of leisure, but there’s something about him, some tilt to his lips, the way he holds his drink, that suggests he doesn’t usually parade the knowledge, not obviously anyway. He looks relaxed, like tonight is his first night off in a while. Uni, Louis thinks. English accent, but studying abroad. 

He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful person Louis has ever laid eyes on, in reality or otherwise. And that’s saying something, since Zayn Malik is one of his best friends and even some of the personifications of his subconscious are _quite_ fit, if he's being perfectly honest. 

Louis looks him up and down. He’s one of the best-dressed people Louis has ever seen as well, and they’re in a club in _Milan_ , for Christ’s sake: Particularly well-tailored black slacks and a pale coral silk shirt that’s open to down to his belly button, flaunting the tattoos he’s got inked into his chest and stomach.

Louis catches sight of a butterfly and cocks an eyebrow. “You know, I know someone with one of those.”

“A Vacheron Constantin? Or a tattoo?”

 _Cheeky_ , Louis thinks, smiling. He likes him already. “A tattoo. It's a butterfly. Know why?”

This mysterious stranger turns to face him, his knees brushing Louis’ thigh. “Why?”

“In prisons—particularly ones of the Russian variety—tattoos are symbols of who you are, what you’ve done. If someone has a tattoo of a butterfly, it means they can be trusted.”

“Really?” He leans forward, setting his drink down. “Do you think I can be trusted?”

Louis laughs, avoiding the question entirely with a smooth wink in his direction. That is not something he wants to admit right now, not when he’s busy chatting up this gorgeous stranger; they can talk about his old thieving trust-issues some other day.

He holds up his arm instead. “So, you recognized my watch. You’ve got a sharp eye on you.”

“I should.” He holds up one arm, flashing a Rolex at Louis. It’s the new Sky-Dweller in eighteen carat Everose gold, a pale pink that glimmers in the neon light.

“ _That_ is lovely.”

“Thank you. Yours, on the other hand…” He leans forward. “Second time zone, phases of the moon, eighteen karat gold, Sapphire Glass anti-reflective coating—if I’m not mistaken, each of these were sitting pretty at eight hundred and eighty-five thousand pounds apiece.”

“Are you some kind of fairytale watchmaker’s apprentice?”

He grins. “Maybe. What I’m wondering is, there were only seven of these made in the entire world—so unless you’re some kind of prince...” He trails off, eyes widening as he looks Louis up and down. “You’re not, are you?”

“And if I was?”

“Well, I’d have to bow and exalt then, wouldn’t I?”

“Would you? To a man you’ve never met before in your life?”

“If he was a prince, sure. I don’t bow for just anyone.” His eyes glimmer as he reaches for his drink, watching Louis over the rim of his glass.

 _Is that so_ , Louis thinks. Oh, he’s going to have fun tonight. The Greek can get stuffed for all Louis cares; it turns out the morsel he was looking for was seated at the bar all along.

Finally, the bartender comes over to their corner; Louis orders the two of them new drinks. The man beside him looks at him in mild surprise, as though he’s not entirely sure why he’s gone and done that.

Louis looks at him, bemused. “Well, I’m not a prince, not by any means. More like a thief.”

He raises his eyebrows. “A thief. Like Robin Hood?”

Louis shrugs. “Something along those lines, sure.” He smiles. “But if you’re really interested, I can explain how I came across this watch.”

He nods enthusiastically. “I am, actually.”

Louis holds out one hand. He hopes he doesn’t mind calluses; there are some things in Louis’ life that he just can’t hide, can’t fake. A life of ease is one of them.

“Louis.”

His hand, when he shakes Louis’, is soft and sweet, with just the hint of strength in it. “Harry.”

And just like that, Louis is gone.

* * *

 

That’s a very nice Milly shirt that Harry is wearing—and now it’s a nice Milly shirt on the ground, getting carried away by the waves.

Louis can’t remember why he chose the beach, only that it seemed like it’d be nice, fun—and with the way Harry is reaching for him with damp fingers, saltwater drops clinging to his lips, he completely understands his earlier train of thought.

“Off, off,” Harry is muttering against his lips, pulling at the buttons on Louis’ shirt haphazardly, but being sure to undo them, careful as anything. Louis smiles against his mouth and reaches down, yanking as hard as he can, the fabric ripping. Louis grins at the shocked look on Harry’s face, at the fierce delight that he seems to catch from the look in Louis’ eyes and then they’re on each other again.

They don’t make it to the small hut on the beach, the one with the palm thatched roof and the well-made deck. Harry trips over something, a starfish washed ashore, and he goes down with a yelp, pulling Louis with him, Louis laughing eagerly. His fingers are deft as he unbuttons Harry’s slacks, yanking them down and cupping his cock through his pants before Harry can so much as reach for him. Harry arches into him breathlessly, mouth open, head thrown back to expose his lovely column of throat. Louis bites him there, hard enough to make Harry gasp, sucking his skin into his mouth and tasting him.

They leave a trail of clothes scattered around them, Louis pulling Harry’s pants down and tossing them aside. He’s still wearing his slacks, and he manages to stand, his legs shaking, reaching for his belt. Harry crawls forward on his knees in the sand, stopping him, pushing his hands aside. Louis stares, enthralled; no one’s ever done that with him before.

Never looking away, Harry undoes Louis’ belt and button, slowly lowering the zipper. It’s maddening and Louis’ about to lose it; he reaches out a hand, wrapping his fingers around a fistful of Harry’s curls. Harry freezes, head tilted back, lips parted. His eyes are narrowed up at Louis, cheeky as ever, waiting for him to do something, say something, give him a sign.

“I think we can both agree that we’re past foreplay, darling,” he says and Harry grins slowly. He nods as much as Louis will let him.

Louis lets go, tugging on one end of Harry’s Hermes scarf for good measure. It comes free, the bulk of Harry’s curls tumbling with it, and Louis’ mouth goes dry. It’s a forest of curls, a dream he wants to get lost in. He can’t stop touching them, even as Harry finally pushes Louis’ slacks and pants down, _especially_ as Harry leans forward and tongues the head of his cock. Louis nearly blacks out. He knew it just looking at Harry that his mouth was made for sin, but he never thought—couldn’t imagine—

Harry wraps a hand around the base of Louis’ cock and licks him all the way down the underside, his eyes on Louis’ face, watching his reactions. Louis’ eyes flutter closed, but not before he catches a glimpse of the scarf out of the corner of his eye—it’s hovering in mid-air, spinning slowly as though it’s caught in the whirl of anti-gravity. It's the only indication whatsoever that they're in a dream. 

Harry hums and Louis’ eyes snap open, his fingers tightening in Harry’s curls. “Cheeky,” he mutters and Harry leans back to smile at him before he’s taking Louis’ cock in his mouth, widening his pretty pink lips around it, and Louis expects him to stop but he _isn’t_ , he takes him all the way down, sucking thickly, and this time Louis lets out a string of curses. Harry pulls off him just as slowly, wetly, tapping the head of Louis’ cock on his tongue and his bottom lip. “Fuck,” he says mildly, as though it were simply a word like _cat_ or _apple_. “You taste so good.”

Louis is barely holding on. “I’m going to fuck you after this, darling, and if you think you’re getting out of it without coming _at least_ twice, you’re very wrong.”

"In your dreams,” Harry says, grinning at his own joke.

“Precisely,” Louis says, leaning down and pulling at the same time, pulling Harry up to him, bending him backwards just a little bit as he kisses his open mouth, licking into him, tasting himself on Harry’s tongue. 

“Come on my face?” Harry asks when they part.

Louis laughs breathlessly, his chest constricting. Who has he ever met in the world that could ever compare to Harry? “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Four more incredibly talented deep throats later, and Louis is doing exactly that, thinking he’s never pulled off a job or painted a picture so pretty as Harry Styles laughing, eyes sparkling playfully, his lovely rosy lips wet with Louis. 

* * *

Gary Wright’s “Dreamweaver” wakes Louis, blasting from his cellphone. He rolls over, reaching for it blindly, but comes up empty. He pats around and then—stops. His hand is touching thick, lush material: carpet. He opens his eyes, the music fading for an instant before starting again even louder.

Louis sits up. He’s on the floor on his hotel room, the curtains thrown wide open to let the sunshine in, clothes and shoes scattered around. A lamp has been knocked off the bedside table, its cord stretched out on the floor beside it, unplugged. Beside him, a silver case lies open, its contents no longer whirring but silent, its vials empty.

He frowns. The phone is still ringing. He pulls himself up onto the bed and crawls towards it, sliding the lock screen. “Yeah?”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Morning, Zayn,” Louis says, yawning.

“Get down here, you prick.”

“Love you too, sweetums.”

He hangs up, tossing the phone into the blankets, rubbing a hand across his face.

In the PASIV’s dream state, it was a week. A week spent lounging around on the beach, chasing each other through the waves, going for hikes in the jungle, having lazy sex in the hut, or out beneath the stars, heady and love-drunk on the feel of Harry beneath him, on top of him, around him. A week spent talking and laughing and cooking with someone he picked up in a bar. A week he spent down there with someone he had only just _met_.

Clearly, Louis is losing his mind.

But is he? Harry was—is—unlike anyone he’s ever met. He asked about Louis’ tattoos and was respectful when Louis mentioned his job, mentioning that he didn’t want to talk about it, not yet (thinking to himself that he might _never_ want to talk about it, not with this angel). “It’s all right,” Harry said, looking into Louis’ eyes, the two of them cuddling on a heap of pillows, “I understand.” And he really did, he seemed to, and it was more comforting to Louis than anything else he’d ever encountered. He couldn’t explain it. Harry was…Harry was peace.

But even that had to end.

And now? Now, Louis is disoriented and his mouth is dry, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. It’s only been half the night in reality, but his body still aches with the tension and fatigue of the dream. A week is a long time to spend anywhere, especially the beach of some deserted tropic island and he can feel it now, rolling his neck and shoulders.

He climbs to his feet, looking around. The clothes on the floor are only his. Shoes, too. “Harry?” he calls out experimentally.

Nothing.

It takes him a moment, but he shrugs. It’s nothing. To convince himself, he says it out loud firmly. “It’s _nothing_. He’s just some kid. It was just a week.”

Just ten thousand and eighty moments together. No big deal.

Louis gets dressed in his other suit, a dark blue ensemble with a crisp white shirt. It’s only when he’s finishing slicking back his hair that he realizes his watch is gone. However, there on the counter is a pretty pink Rolex. Louis stares at it in the mirror. It’s the only evidence that Harry was ever even there. He’s thorough, Louis has to give him that.

But he’s also a thief. Sure, maybe he didn’t realize he was stealing _from_ a thief but—well, Louis doesn’t exactly advertise that, does he? At least, not before last night, anyway. God knows what possessed him to divulge _that_ detail in the heat of the moment. As if he doesn’t know.

He shakes his head, slipping the watch on and adjusting it to fit his slim wrist. It doesn’t match his outfit at all, but he doesn’t care. He kind of _likes_ the idea that people’s attention will be drawn to it. If they’re too busy looking at his watch, then how will they ever notice his other hand in their pocket?

He packs up his things, the PASIV included, and when he takes the elevator down to the lobby, Zayn is waiting for him. Hair coiffed, his clothes and shoes all black, sunglasses covering his eyes, he looks like a bodyguard for someone important. Or a mob boss. Either way, he does not appear happy and when he looks at Louis, he scowls darkly.

“You’re late,” he snaps. “We’re gonna miss our flight.”

“Someone stole my watch. C’mon, love, we haven’t got all day!” Louis fairly sings, striding past him. Zayn grumbles under his breath behind him and Louis laughs.

To Louis’ surprise, they’re not the last people to board the plane. Niall and Liam are already there playing FIFA on the Xbox they’ve got set up with the TV towards the back of the plane and Perrie is leaning back in her seat, a purple sleep mask over her eyes, a mimosa beside her on the armrest. He smiles at that, taking his carry-on to the middle of the plane, away from Zayn and his pointed remarks.

“There yeh are,” Niall says, glancing at Louis with a grin. “Thought you were dead.”

“Oh, please. You know the way I work.”

Niall nods. “Love ’em and leave ’em, ya heartless bastard.”

“Excuse you. It’s _because_ I have a heart that I don’t want to make romantic attachments. In our line of work; are you joking? We could get shot or arrested.”

“Heaven forbid,” another voice says. Louis glances back down towards the nose of the plane to see Gemma, their last team member, climbing in. She looks tired but happy as she throws her coat onto her seat. “Well done everyone, yesterday was a brilliant success. Greg’s going to wire us the money today and we should have it by the time we touch down in Paris. All clear?”

They nod, clapping—at least, Louis and Zayn do; Niall and Liam are busy grappling with video game football, and Perrie claps twice before letting her arms fall back down to her seat, tilting her head to face the window.

“Right then,” Zayn says, looking at Gemma. “Wheels up?”

“Not quite, we have another passenger. Don’t worry,” she says when they all turn to look at her, Niall and Liam included, even Perrie going so far as to shove up her sleep mask and stare. “He’s cool, you really don’t need to trouble yourself with it. He’s my brother, see, it’s fine. You could say it’s a bit of a family business.”

Louis snorts. _Bit_ of a family business. Like Gemma’s mum, Anne Cox, isn’t one of the best and most infamous extractors to ever live.

“He’ll just be coming along with us to Paris; after that, we’re splitting ways. Good?”

Everyone nods. Gemma claps her hands together and walks back to the door of the plane, gesturing at someone to come aboard. Louis is looking down at his phone, checking the weather in Paris, when he strides onto their plane, Gemma introducing him.

“Everyone, this is my brother, Harry Styles. Harry, that’s Perrie, Zayn, Niall, Liam, and right there’s Louis!”

Louis looks up—and locks eyes with Harry. Harry, whose eyes are cute and wide and utterly shocked, Harry whose cheeks are going pink; Harry from the club the night before, Harry on the beach, Harry in his _dreams_. He looks nothing like he did the night before. Well, almost nothing like it: He still has those gorgeous curls and an Hermès scarf tying them back, but now he’s wearing a slouchy green jumper and black skinny jeans, a pair of brown suede boots on his feet. A knapsack is slung over one shoulder, several notebooks and a folder in his hands.

Louis stares for a long moment before his eyes flick over to Gemma. “You have a brother.”

She frowns. “I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before.”

“Yeah, she has,” Niall calls, glancing over at them. “Said his name was Harry and he’s a student in Paris.”

Well. Shit. That’s just embarrassing. But how is Louis expected to pay attention to their idle chatter all the time? He’s the one who meets with prospective clients, the one who explains—with Gemma, his point woman—what they’ll be doing. She handles the money and the information; there’s not a single device in this modern world that’s safe from her hacking skills. He’s always preoccupied with, not only convincing the marks to hand over their secrets, but of the danger of what they do, with the knowledge that any day it can come crashing down just like the skyscrapers in their dreams, and where will they be then? He has to worry so all of them don’t have to. He misses a few details every now and again as a result. 

Only now is he regretting it. 

“Don’t mind Louis,” Gemma is saying, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “He doesn’t pay attention to much beyond the size of his bank account.”

“And his cock,” Zayn mutters.

Niall wheezes with laughter, only to yell when Liam’s team scores a goal not a moment later. Louis doesn’t even refute the two of them because essentially, it’s true. Essentially. They are missing one important love in his shady, con-suffused life, though: The _dreams_. He didn’t start this for the money, though it’s a plus, and he certainly didn’t start it for the idea of traveling the world and losing himself in the hard bodies of guys that he’d never see again, though that’s _definitely_ a plus, too. No, he did it because—well, a couple of reasons, really. The main one is that once you go in there, hooking yourself up into someone else’s mind, there’s no going back. Reality will never again be good enough to dwell in, not when he can create and destroy worlds in equal measure. Not when literally anything is possible within the boundaries of dreamscapes, infinity at his fingertips.

“No arguments there.” Louis sits back in his seat, one arm up on the back, an eyebrow raised. “Well, at any rate, it’s about _time_ Gemma introduced you to us, isn’t it?”

Harry grins slowly, almost shyly. “Oh, I would have hated to _steal_ your attention from your,” he looks around at their expensive chartered plane, “pressing matters.”

Louis’ hands tighten on the arms of his seat. Nobody notices. Nobody notices but Harry.

He takes a seat beside Gemma and doesn’t look back the entire time.

When they land in Paris several hours later, Louis is running on fumes and annoyed, having lost three rounds of Words With Friends in a row to Zayn, Perrie, and Liam, of all fucking people. Gemma is sitting a few seats further up the plane from him, but every now and again she looks back and when he gets the text, he’s not really surprised.

_You ok?_

Louis stares at the screen, pondering how to delicately explain to her that he fucked her precious little brother into a sobbing mess not a day before and watched Harry swallow his come with a talent unseen in years. He types quickly, the words coming out as best as he can.

_fine just tired_

She looks back at him once more. Mouths, “You sure?”

He nods, yawning for effect.

That _is_ true—partly. They’ve been in Italy for several months; he can’t wait to stop off in Paris, sleep for eternity, and be back home in London in time for tea with Mum. It's about time. He hasn't seen her for more than a handful of days in a year. 

Mostly, he’s tired from drowning in a dream with a—a _boy_ who looks like he can’t be much more than eighteen or nineteen. If Gemma ever finds out, he can say goodbye to his balls. She’d probably get Perrie’s help, too; Louis slides a look at her across the aisle from him. She’s still wearing that sleep mask, taking deep even breaths, but he has the definitive sense that she’s not asleep.

When they land, Louis is the first one off the plane, Gemma calling after him. He pretends he can’t hear her.  He can’t bear the thought of sticking around, even if Harry _was_ , admittedly, the best sex of his life. All he wants is a bubble bath, a cigarette or five, and a twelve-hour date with the Executive Suite at Le Meurice. The money they’re getting from Greg will be the cherry on top of a weird, wild job well done.

Footsteps plod determinedly on the tarmac behind him. Louis knows who it is even before he looks.

“So what’d you do with my watch?”

“Called the insurance company.” Louis can’t see him, but he can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Collected the reward. Turns out a certain Monacan prince wanted it back.”

Louis snorts. “You just happened to have them on speed dial?”

“Gem’s not the only ace with a computer, you know.”

 _Gem._ That knowledge still makes Louis cringe, just a little. He’s seen the way she handles a gun, and it’s certainly nothing to sneeze at. “Ah, my mistake, love. You’re clearly cut from the same cloth.”

“You could say that, yeah.” Harry sniffles behind him, his long legs quickly overtaking Louis so they’re side by side. “So you weren’t joking last night.”

“About what?”

“You’re a thief.”

“Darling, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but your sister’s a thief like the rest of us.”

Harry laughs. “I had noticed, thanks. Didn’t realize you were her boss, though.”

“Is _that_ what she says about me? Well, that’s just wildly untrue. We’re all partners, we’re a team.”

“She has mentioned that, yeah. Says the two of you met in…Belize?” A uniformed worker holds the door open for them and they enter the airport. A perky French voice is announcing a change of flight times and people are swarming the lines of customs, going through their pockets looking for their passports.

“Yeah. She tell you she pickpocketed me? Dab hand at that, but it’s dangerous work.”

“Thieving in general seems like a dangerous profession.”

Louis stops, finally turning to look at him. His jumper makes his eyes looking particularly green, and his lashes are long and dark like a doll’s. He looks like an ordinary student on his way home, but Louis knows better than anyone: Appearances are deceiving.

“You’re the one who just got off a plane with us.”

Harry smiles, squinting against the cloud-covered sunlight hitting his face. “And who says _I’m_ not a thief?”

Louis glances back out at the doors and the tarmac. He doesn’t give a shit about the people trying to get home, only the members of his team whose reactions to the knowledge about him and Harry’s…whatever it was, he can only imagine.  He reaches for Harry, grabbing a handful of his jumper and pulling him towards one of the walls patterned with windows, Harry stumbling through squares of light as Louis pushes him against the wall. He lifts himself on his tiptoes, annoyed and vaguely aroused at the height difference between them, at how Harry can still be so beautiful, even as tired as he must be from the night before.

Louis reaches around to Harry’s back, running his hands up underneath his jumper and t-shirt, stroking his bare skin where his body heat has collected. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, his pupils blowing wide as his mouth falls open in surprise. Desire colors his cheeks red as he wraps his arms around Louis, pulling him closer.

Louis slides his hands down, one beneath Harry’s jeans and pants, grabbing a handful of his ass. Harry gasps, lowering his head to kiss Louis feverishly, his lips hovering over Louis’ and—

Louis glides away from him as quick as it all began, leaving Harry to stand there with his back to the wall, arms still held out as though the ghost of Louis remains pressed against him. His eyes are wide now, shocked.

“What…” he says, lowering his arms slowly.

“This,” Louis says, holding up both Harry’s wallet and passport, “is how I know you’re not a thief.”

He tosses them back to Harry and he catches them clumsily, holding them to his chest. “You pickpocketed me?”

“Well, I distracted you first. Essentials of thievery.”

“I’ll…be sure to remember that.” Harry smiles, tucking them away again. “You’re quite good. How exactly did Gemma get the drop on you?”

“Not the same way, I assure you.”

Harry kicks off the wall and Louis smirks at the way he slides his hands into his back pockets, his sense of security somewhat lost. “So listen,” he says, “about last night—”

Louis holds up a hand, shaking his head. “Do we _really_ have to go down that road? I’d rather not, I have a splitting headache—”

“So you’re just going to pretend you never met me? That last week—last _night_ , whatever—didn’t happen?”

“Uh. Yeah, sounds about right.” Louis is turning away when a surprisingly large, firm hand grips his arm. He turns back slowly, not saying a word. Harry doesn’t say anything either, just looks down at his hand as though he’s shocked it even happened, as though he didn’t mean to do that at all.

Louis looks up at him, meeting his gaze. Unconsciously, his eyes flick down, focusing in on Harry’s mouth. His lips are amazing, gorgeously pink and full, and just last night they were wrapped blissfully around his cock and chanting his name. Louis’ dick twitches as the memory, his skin warming everywhere.

Harry leans in like he knows.

From Louis’ right, he hears a laugh. Perrie’s laugh.

He pulls out of Harry’s grip, running a hand alongside his hair, making sure it’s smoothed back. He’s disoriented and frankly, very alarmed, to discover his hands are shaking. What the _fuck_ is this, his hands don’t shake, after interactions with cute boys or otherwise. He is stalwart. He’s a goddamn _fixed point_ on their team, the one that everyone looks to. This is ridiculous.

He doesn’t care about seeing them after he fucks them. He doesn’t smile at them, doesn’t joke, and certainly doesn’t _want_ to see him again. And yet, even as the others join them, he can’t help but sneak a glance in Harry’s direction, his stomach filling with…something. Indigestion, probably, thanks to that spicy Bloody Mary that morning, but also maybe something like—longing. Desire, to…what? Spend _time_ with him? Get to _know_ him? As soon as he thinks it, this odd feeling, like warmth blossoming outwards, fills his chest. He bites his lip hard.

This is just a whole other slew of problems that Louis would rather not digest at the moment.

Fingers with nails like claws snap in front of his eyes. “Earth to Louis.”

He turns, looking at Perrie with narrowed eyes. “Yes?”

“Dinner tonight—Lassere?”

Louis shrugs noncommittally. Perrie loves to go out and dine, especially in Paris, but he’s really not feeling it. He’s exhausted, there are knots in the muscles of his shoulders and neck, and he wants to drink himself into an early sleep like a forty-year-old with nothing to look forward to. It’s been One of Those Days.

And yet, Perrie is looking at him with those enormous baby blue eyes like she knows, and he knows she does, because she knows _everything_. You don’t rise to the top of a criminal syndicate at just twenty years of age and then spend the next six months in a Russian prison cell without being at least a _little_ bit observant. 

He crumbles under her gaze. “Fine. We’ll go to dinner. Although after last time, who knows if they’ll let us in. I mean, I’ll be the first to applaud you for throwing that glass of water in his face—and good on you for not throwing the wine, that was a very expensive sauvignon—but really, Pez, didn’t you think—”

They bicker back and forth as they go through customs and for a moment, Louis is allowed to forget about Harry fucking Styles. Just a moment. He can feel Harry watching him from behind Liam and Niall, but he’s not going to look back. No, he _isn’t_. Instead he smiles and hands his passport to the woman at the counter, flashing his ID.

“Louis Tomlinson,” she says, looking at him, “of Doncaster in the United Kingdom?”

“Yeah.”

She smiles, her teeth very white. “Welcome to France.”

He smiles wider, a bit unnerved by the mechanical way she’s looking at him. He takes his passport, hurrying away; he doesn’t want to be near her for a moment longer than necessary. He slides his passport back into the pocket of his duffle bag, looking for his sunglasses. The sun is setting outside and he has no desire to face any more blinding light than he has to.

He doesn’t see her eyes slide furtively towards the curved wall. He doesn’t see her signal surreptitiously. He doesn’t see any of it.

Sounds reach his ears as he’s fiddling with a persnickety zipper: A struggle, hands grappling, pulling at clothing; feet sliding on the carpet of their terminal, grunts and mutterings, a rising “let me go, let me _go_ ” and then

“ _LOUIS!_ ”

The shout rings out, echoing. Louis looks up. A strange sight meets his gaze: Liam with his arms wrapped tight around Harry, holding him, struggling, in place. Harry’s face is absolutely horrified, looking past Louis. He doesn’t understand.

Ever so _slowly_ , he turns.

Coming up over the rise the escalators are armed French police in riot gear, black beetles swarming towards him, several suits at their front with black sunglasses and flashing badges. Dimly behind him he can hear Gemma screaming, Perrie snarling, and Niall’s manic shouts but he doesn’t move, can’t move, not with the red dots of half a dozen sights pointed directly at his chest.

“Drop your bag and put your ’ands on your ’ead,” the foremost suit yells. He sounds as though he’s underwater, bubbles coming to Louis instead of words. “Drop your bag or these men will shoot!”

He looks back. They have all been restrained, flanked on both sides. Perrie is down on the floor, still squirming with a knee on her back; Niall is beside her. Zayn and Gemma stand off to the side, each of them sandwiched by two more of the police, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Tears are streaking down Gemma’s face, her skin pale.

Then there’s Harry. He’s just a few feet behind Louis, a  stretch and a reach away, also pinned to the ground. He’s still fighting, sweating, looking up at Louis with the most helpless expression he has ever seen on someone’s face.

“Don’t,” Harry pants, shaking his head as much as he can. “Don’t.”

Louis’ not sure what he means: don’t give himself up, or don’t reach for Harry the way he sorely wants to, every part of him vibrating with the desire to knock away the officer holding him down and tear him to _pieces_.

His hands clench, fingers aching.

“Come along now, Mr. Tomlinson. There is no cause for such resistance.” The suit smirks. “You’re only going to prison, after all.”

The fuck he is. He thinks about it quickly, breaking it all down: If he moves, they’ll open fire, but it should give him enough time to duck behind one of the desks. _Then what_ , his mind shrieks, _then what the hell are you going to do?_ He’s not bad at hand-to-hand combat—he spars with Perrie, after all, and she’s the best. He could disarm one of the officers, take his gun, hold it to the head of the employee with the awful, awful smile. Demand they let his friends go. Die in a blaze of glory. _Or escape._ Though, what’s the likelihood of that?

He seriously considers it until—

“Louis,” Harry says from behind him, his voice tiny. There is something calm about it now, something accepting. The equivalent of a hand on his arm, staying his movements. Louis can taste his heart in his throat, his head pounding.

_Don’t._

If they open fire, he’s not the only person they could hit. Would hit. He understands rate of fire and probability well enough to know the likelihood of casualties.

Slowly, movements careful and precise, Louis puts down his duffle bag. Nudges it away with one foot.

“Louis, no—” Niall shouts, but he’s silenced with a thud and a grunt; someone kicked him. Louis’ heart _burns_.

But he _can’t_.

So he drops down to his knees. His arms come up and bend towards his head.

The police descend like an angry black cloud, and they are spirited away.

* * *

Two of them are spared: Harry Styles, whom no jury can prove was connected with his sister’s crimes, and Liam Payne, for giving them up in the first place. He testifies against them in court. If Louis’ eyes could rend, Liam would be dead a thousand times over, his stare unwavering and unflinching. Louis hears rumors afterward that Liam’s gone into the witness protection programme. _Coward_.

He’s sentenced to the most time, but his lawyer, bless her heart, not only is an ace solicitor with a strong defense, but also knows which palms to grease—and he’s got the money for it, with a theft rap sheet like his. They throw out most of it for lack of evidence or because it’s circumstantial, thanks to her talents. She even manages to make the espionage charge go away and he reminds himself to send her a gift basket when he gets the chance. You know, whenever that is. She’s got a good long while to wait.

A year looms before him. It could have been ten times that, maybe more. He’s lucky, always has been.

He calls his Mum and tells her he’s doing Doctors Without Borders and he’ll be in Burma. She’s happy for him, and he promises to wear his sunscreen and drink clean water. He wants to laugh, but it’s too depressing so instead he just tells her he loves her and that he’ll send postcards. Jay Tomlinson would understand many things about his lifestyle, his profession as a high-risk conman not being one of them.

Harry comes to visit him two months into his sentence. Louis is so shocked that he almost doesn’t pick up the phone in the visitor area, eyes locked onto the man beyond the glass. When he does, he can hear Harry breathing and it breaks over his head like a wave, comforting and sensual and just what he needed.

He closes his eyes, focusing on that sound, so intent that he almost misses what Harry’s saying entirely.

He opens his eyes, managing a jaunty smile. “I’m sorry, darling, I was miles away. What?”

“I said, are you okay?” Harry looks well, if a bit pale, nothing at all like the golden, flushed prince Louis remembers. He’s left his hair down like it was then, and it looks so clean and soft that Louis almost sighs into the receiver. _What_ —since when had he become this lovesick sugar daddy pining in prison on a bullshit white collar sentence? He shakes himself out of it.

Harry’s wearing a grey jumper this time and hasn’t brought anything with him except the clothes he’s wearing and the dark silver rings on several of his fingers. Louis stares at them where they’re clasped together on the surface of the table.

“Yeah, I’m all right. White collar is nothing, and I’ve got plenty of money for bribes so I have my own cell. It’s actually not so bad, to be quite honest.” He clears his throat, sitting up straight. “This Chav friend of mine brings me my mail and food, and he’s a real pal, that Frankie. At least, I think that’s his name.”

Harry smiles at that, but the worry doesn’t leave his eyes. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” The airport aside, this is the longest conversation he’s had with a one-night stand past the initial _I’d like to fuck you_ bit and the _well I’ve got to go now_ morning-after, and he’s not really sure where to take it. “Erm. How are you?”

Harry looks hesitant at first, but Louis’ genuine interest gets to him and he flies. Harry chirps about uni and how he’s going to graduate in a few months and what it’s like at the bookstore where he works. He doesn’t stop with himself, either: He mentions Gemma making friends in the women’s prison and how Perrie has been in solitary confinement for fighting and that Zayn is running a game in the prison he’s at, everyone coming to him for their bets, and that Niall is with him making moonshine in the toilet out of ketchup, Kool-Aid packets, bartered yeast, and apple juice. So, the usual, really.

“Sounds like they’re all doing okay,” Louis says. He tilts his head. “Well, how I would expect them to be doing, anyway.” He looks at Harry then for a long time, eyes roving over his face, taking in each little detail: the bags under his eyes, the vivid shine to Harry's green eyes, the downward tilt of his pretty mouth. He looks as though he's been preoccupied and Louis feels a slash of guilt go through him. Harry is worn out and it's partly Louis' fault. He never imagined he'd feel bad, never imagined he'd feel anything, really—he's a one night stand, after all. But there's something in Harry's eyes, in the way he leans forward toward the glass, expressing that attention and interest in every word Louis has to say. He's just so goddamned genuine, it cuts Louis to the quick.

And only makes this that much harder.

“Can I ask you something?” he finally asks.

Harry nods.

“Why are you here?”

Harry squirms in his seat at that question, looking away. “Um. Well. I wanted to see how you were. And I wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Sorry,” Louis repeats. “Sorry for what?”

“For…I dunno. Not saying something sooner. For not fighting more when Liam grabbed me.” Louis must frown at that because Harry’s eyes widen. “You didn’t know? I realized what was going on and I went to go after you, to warn you, but he held me back. Didn’t want to ruin his plans, I guess.”

Louis stares anew. Less than twelve hours after he met him, and Harry was trying to stop him from going to prison, trying to save his life. Louis’ heart is beating loud in his ears and he can feel it in the warmth rushing up his cheeks, a resounding drum that makes his eyes hot and his teeth grind down.

What he’s feeling now can only be described as affection, gratitude, disbelief. Who _is_ this Harry Styles person? And why does he seem to have such a tight grip on Louis when they only spent (technically) one night together? Louis has never felt this way, about _anyone_ , and to be honest, it’s maddening. He doesn’t want it. He wants Harry to take it back.

He sucks in a breath. “Well, thanks. I’m glad to see at least _someone_ I know. But…” He forces himself to look Harry in the eyes. “Maybe you shouldn’t come back here again.”

Harry’s face falls and Louis physically feels his dismay. “Why?”

 _It’s too hard for me._ “You don’t belong here, Harry. Go back to uni, finish your classes, find a boy, settle down. This isn’t the life for you.”

“You—” Harry stops, scowling. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just don’t come back, all right? Go find something else to do in the next year than come here out of…pity or guilt, or whatever.”

Harry shoves the chair back, standing quickly. “I will,” he says calmly, the anger wiped from his face. “Thanks for the advice. By the way, I left you something. You probably don’t want to hold it in here, I’m sure your lawyer will be more than happy to take it for you.” He tosses his hair back. “Bye, Louis.”

Louis doesn’t say goodbye because he's too busy wishing he was dead for that. 

“Hey,” one of the guards says as they’re taking him back to his cell, “you sure you want this in here? You got your own cell and all that, but this is a pricey bauble here.”

It’s his Vacheron Constantin. When he brings it up to his face, he can smell a bit of cologne clinging to it, as though Harry spritzed his wrists while wearing it. He wants to keep it just for that, but Harry’s right: Prison is no place for a watch worth millions.

“Send it to my lawyer,” he says. “Tell her to sell it and use the money to get me the _fuck_ out of here.” 

* * *

Louis gets out four months early on “good behavior.” That’s the official story, anyway. Turns out a limited edition watch can go to almost one hundred million to someone who wants it badly enough. There are other watches in the world; Louis’ just glad to be free, finally able to smell the grass and the air and know that he’s not going to have go back in for a long, long time.

Hopefully, anyway.

Zayn is leaning against the fence outside when they escort Louis out, Louis who is still wearing his white Oxford shirt and grey slacks, his Italian leather shoes slung over one shoulder. He’s a bit sick of them, to be honest, and he doesn’t care if the carpark is filthy; he wants to be barefoot.

Zayn is dressed in an all-black suit, wearing a pair of Ray Ban aviators, looking like this is some kind of heist. In a way, it is: They’re busting him out.

Louis grins at him and his dark attire. “Bit early for my funeral, innit?”

“Says you.”

Louis grins and they hug tightly. It’s been too long.

Perrie is sitting behind the wheel of a black Pontiac Firebird, looking out at them with her round sunglasses pushed down to the end of her nose. Her lipstick is lavender, her nails painted an acid green and, as usual, sharpened into claws even after all this time. The spider tattoo she has on her lower arm is looking particularly dark today, crawling up its spun thread of silk towards her elbow.

He bends down to kiss her on the cheek through the window. “You’re looking particularly devilish today.”

She grins. “How are you, Lou? You look thin.”

“It’s certainly no Lassere, I can tell you that.”

Perrie groans with longing, lowering her head to the steering wheel. Zayn pushes his seat up, allowing Louis into the back before they’re all in and ready to go. Perrie guns the engine, throwing the stick shift forward and they race out of the carpark, brakes squealing. Louis laughs at the sheer speed and the wild irrepressible freedom he feels with Zayn’s window open, the wind raking through his hair.

They stop at a burger joint ten miles away and order everything they can carry. Louis eats like he’s dying.

“So,” he finally says, crumpling a wrapper and throwing it into one of the bags. They’re parked on the side of the road overlooking a field about five miles away, the windows down, one of Louis’ mixtapes playing classic Bowie while birds twitter outside, hopping along the low fence. 

“Where to next?”

Zayn glances back, grinning as he slides his sunglasses back on. “Let’s get the gang back together, yeah?”

“Excellent,” Louis says, looking out the window. He smiles. “I love reunion tours.” 

* * *

Three months out of the slammer and it just figures someone would get shot.

“C’mon, Gem, we’ve got ya,” Zayn says, pulling her just a little bit further out of their workroom and into Niall’s lab. It’s just a warehouse in London, but it does its job—usually, anyway.

Niall slams the door behind them, looking at Louis, a pair of goggles shoved up on top of his messy blond hair. “What the hell happened?”

“It appears we’ve been connected to Greg. Grimshaw’s people aren’t happy.”

“But Grimshaw’s _dead_ , there was that plane crash—”

“Maybe they think we had something to do with it? It doesn’t matter, Ni! Go grab our shit and pack up with Perrie, we’ve got about five minutes until they break through that door and then we’re well and truly fucked.”

Niall glances at Gemma. “What about her?”

“We’ll handle it.”

Niall just stares at him. “Louis.”

“We’ll swing by Lou’s on the way to the airport, okay?” What do they want from him? It's not like he has any medical expertise, and it's not like this isn't affecting him just the same. It's  _Gemma_. She's everyone's rock, their constant source of light and sunshine.  _If we lose her, I'll burn this world down._

“She’s not comin’ with us, Lou,” Zayn pipes up. “She can’t.”

Louis looks down at Gemma sprawled on the floor and Zayn kneeling beside her. She’s leaking blood from her shoulder, clutching at it, wincing painfully. She’s too pale, even with Zayn’s hands around hers, trying to stem the flow. Louis only notices then that he has blood on his hands, his shirt… Gemma’s blood.

His heart swoops dangerously low into his stomach and his head spins. He wavers, catching himself on the edge of Niall’s work table. Niall lunges for him, grabbing his arm. “Yeh all righ’?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He rubs a hand against his forehead. When did it get so crazy? “We’ll take Gemma to Lou’s, and she can watch over her. As long as she has someone to keep an eye on her…We don’t want them coming back to finish the job.”

Gemma laughs, coughing on the end of it. “They can try.”

“That’s the spirit, love. Niall, gather your things.” Niall trips over himself in his haste to start bunging all his bottles and solvents into a duffel bag he keeps in the corner, while Louis bends down, kneeling on Gemma’s other side. “You okay?”

“I’ll be better when we get out of here.” She looks down, holding up her hand. She’s still holding her totem, a brass key with a base shaped like a heart. It’s slick with blood. “But, Louis—”

“Don’t worry about the job, don’t worry about anything. We’re gonna sort it all, I promise.”

She smiles faintly. “I believe you.”

Zayn looks at him and Louis can read everything he’s asking just right there. _How are we going to pull this off without Gemma?_ Louis can see it, feel it happen, the knowledge passing between them. Zayn blinks, frowning, and Louis can hear his voice clear in his head. _You know what we have to do._

“No,” Louis says aloud, “absolutely not. Absolutely _not_.”

Zayn looks down at Gemma. She’s closed her eyes and is breathing shallowly now. “What choice do we have?”

He doesn’t answer. He points at Zayn. “Call Simon. We’re going to need someone powerful if we want to fly out of here.”

Louis at least waits until after they’ve dropped off Gemma and half an arsenal with Lou Teasdale, an old acquaintance of theirs who happens to be a fence, to make sure they’ll be protected. He waits until they’re on the plane and heading for Paris, under Simon’s guaranteed protection. He waits until Zayn is sitting next to him on the plane, Perrie on his other side, exhaustedly staring off into space.

“It’s not going to work,” he finally says when they’re in the air.

“Why not?” Zayn doesn’t even have to ask what he’s talking about: He knows. Always does.

Louis doesn’t answer, can’t answer, _won’t_. “What about Cal?”

“Out of the business.”

“Julian?”

“ _No_.”

“Ben?”

“Don’t even go there. You remember the last time.”

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He _does_ remember the last time, and that’s the problem. Because, as Zayn has pointed out, there is no one else.

“He has no _experience_.”

“Gemma’s his sister and Anne Cox is his mum. You really think he’s a total amateur?”

“What you—all of you—don’t seem to understand is that…is that…” Louis’ tone and voice both falter, his train of thought derailing.

“What?” Zayn asks, voice softer now.

 _He’s precious. This world is too dangerous for him because he’s precious. To me._ Louis lets out a wavering sigh. “He’s young,” Louis says, completely pathetically.

Zayn doesn’t even dignify that with a response. “He’s the clear choice, Louis. Like you said: There’s nothing we can do about it, we have no other alternative, not anymore.”

Louis doesn’t want this. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Harry again, he does. He’s wanted to every day since they met, which is both strange to him and also surprisingly normal, though he has no idea where _that_ feeling came from. Something about Harry called out to him, though…some part of Louis recognized something in Harry, as ridiculous as it sounds, and he’s thought of him every day since he told him not to come back, wishing he hadn’t done that but realizing it was necessary.

Because this world is, like he said, too dangerous. If Harry got hurt—and more importantly, if Harry got hurt because of _Louis_ —it would kill him. His entire world would come crumbling down.

And if that isn’t the most unfair fucking realization in the entire world, Louis doesn’t know what is. Being a thief was something that had fallen into his lap, but never in a million years would he ever have imagined…falling for someone, falling for Harry in this wild life of theirs. 

Louis grumbles, “I thought he was in Paris. Studying.”

Zayn laughs and he sounds like himself again, not worried about them, and certainly not dwelling on what comes next. “Lots of things have changed, mate. It’s been eight months since we met him, y’know? Besides, where are we headed right now? Paris.”

“I know.” Louis sighs. _Please let this be the right decision._ “All right. Has Gemma called him already?”

Zayn nods. “’Course. He was about to fly to London, but she told him to stay put, that she’s fine.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Not well, unsurprisingly.” Zayn side-eyes Louis. “Why?”

“Just curious,” he says hastily, turning towards the window. “We need him focused, don’t we?”

“’Course, mate,” Zayn says, his voice altogether too amused. “Focused and all tha’.”

“Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Not so quietly that Louis doesn’t notice, Zayn and Perrie exchange a high-five. Louis rolls his eyes. 

* * *

They touch down in Paris on the cusp of dawn, the sky a rosy-grey, mists clinging to the wavering streetlamps of the rues. They take a cab from the airport nearly two hours after they land, as some of Niall’s bags were seized for having traces of explosives on them. Louis is the epitome of a complete lack of surprise. Niall only manages to avoid arrest, yet again, thanks to the handful of euros that Zayn presses into the hands of the security guards, patting their cheeks when they wave them through.

“Why is everything an ordeal with you?” Perrie asks as they clamber into the cab. He tries to slide in after her but she shakes her head. “Uh-uh. You get shotgun.”

Niall’s lips turn down. “Why?”

“Because we haven’t had breakfast yet and you held us up. I’m hungry and angry.”

"Hangry," Zayn says. "It's a real word."

“ _You’re_ hungry, how do you think _I_ feel,” Niall mutters, backtracking and sitting in the front seat. The cabbie grins luridly at him and Niall winces back.

Zayn goes in, then Louis, and they’re on their way to Greg’s.

He calls it “the Hideout” but in all sincerity, it’s an immense building he owns that takes up nearly an entire block, wrapped up in a wrought-iron fence that is equal parts magical and ominous, a warning to strangers. The first floor he rents out as offices, or that’s the official story at least; they’re all filled with his own employees who are paid to make it _seem_ as though they’re doing something. The other floors, the higher ones, are for them.

Greg isn’t there, being that he’s a businessman and therefore constantly busy, but there’s a note left telling them to be careful, wipe any trails that might lead back to him, and for God’s sake Niall, please don’t blow up/melt/set fire to anything. They seem like easy enough rules to follow, all in exchange for a safe house where they can finish up their job.

It’s all just an empty floor, with two separate deviations: Restrooms, and Niall’s place to conduct whatever unholy experiments he’s got cooking in his mind. The rest of it is theirs, a warehouse, a space, a blank canvas, an untouched sketchbook waiting for the first press of a pen.

Harry isn’t there. Gemma told him the address and what time to meet them and he isn’t there. That has Louis frowning.

“Where’s Harry?” he asks.

Zayn is falling asleep on the floor, his head on Perrie’s lap, the two of them leaning against their luggage. He hates not being able to sleep in, but Perrie is winding her hands through his hair, smoothing it back from his face and he seems calm, less likely to have a meltdown without coffee.

He shrugs ineffectually. “No idea. Was he ’sposed to be here?”

Perrie nods. “I thought so. Gemma told him to meet us.”

“Prolly got lost,” Zayn mumbles.

“Do you have his number?” Niall asks, plopping down on the floor beside them, scooting in against them both, curving his body around theirs as he lets himself fall backwards.

“No.” It’s entirely possible he’s gotten lost, though, as he lives in Paris—or, at least, goes to school there—Louis finds that highly unlikely. “I’m going to go out and look for him.”

“M’kay, good luck,” Niall says muzzily and Louis rolls his eyes.

He doesn’t have to go far. As soon as Louis hits the street, the sun rising in a golden swath over Paris, he sees him sitting on a bench across the street beneath the shade of a tree, eating yogurt and reading a book. The sight alone stuns Louis, stopping him on the sidewalk. Harry looks utterly at peace, a student out for a morning walk. As though this is just a place that he goes and Louis is an intruder on his quiet routine. At least Louis feels that way, watching him.

He crosses the street after a few cars pass, jogging, slowing to a walk with his hands in his pockets when he reaches him. Harry doesn’t look up, his spoon hovering over the cup of yogurt. Harry looks entirely at ease, his hair pulled back from his face in a small bun, a dark blue scarf around his neck. He’s wearing that green jumper again, the one he was wearing the day they were arrested. Louis would never forget it; it’s his favorite. He’s got a tiny gold post earring in and a pair of glittery boots on his feet, catching the morning sun.

Harry hasn’t noticed that all the yogurt he’d scooped up had fallen from his spoon in his distraction, his eyes moving quickly across the page. He hasn’t noticed Louis, either, and that’s just unacceptable. Just a bit.

“Darling, the suspense is killing me. Either eat it or give it to me, I’m starved.”

Harry jumps, dropping his yogurt. It splatters across the bench and just like that, a cloud of pigeons descends on them from within the tree overhead. Harry yelps and Louis grabs his hand, pulling him off the bench, out of the cloud of flapping wings and deranged coos. He’s still clutching his book and his spoon, now woefully empty.

“What the—” Harry turns to look at him and Louis almost chokes; there’s a splatter of yogurt on Harry’s cheek and he has flashbacks to the night they met. Without even thinking about it, Louis swipes it away with his thumb, popping it in his mouth. “Thanks so much for that,” Harry murmurs, licking what’s left on his spoon; Louis’ eyes trace the movement. “Was that necessary?”

“Of course. What are you doing out here? You were supposed to meet us inside.”

Harry flushes, looking mildly embarrassed as he throws the plastic spoon into a nearby bin. “I was going to, but the lady down on the first floor told me there were no offices up on the others and that I must have the wrong address.”

Louis laughs, head spinning dizzily; lack of sleep, food, and the near presence of Harry are beginning to overwhelm. “Someone must’ve forgotten to mention it, to clear you. C’mon, I’ll bring you in.” He looks around, over their shoulders, taking notice of the street, the cars, the people, looking for anyone who might be watching or following them. His stomach twists nervously as he again wishes they’re not bringing Harry into a pit of vipers like theirs, their world of corporate espionage.

Harry starts to follow him, but Louis stops. “Wait. You’ll need to grab some things, we'll be here a while and it's just not safe for you to be coming and going every day. We can call a cab, where do you live?”

Harry rattles off his address without hesitation. Louis’ not even surprised that he lives on the Left Bank. If there’s one thing he’s learned about Harry, it’s that he’s got taste. They hail a cab, Louis delirious in the early morning chill, Harry still pouting over his yogurt. Louis sends a surreptitious text to a friend of his who works at a nearby café, sliding his phone back into his pocket without a word. Louis wants to ask Harry how he’s been, how his school is going, but he’s not sure he has the right, not after the last time they spoke. He wonders if Harry’s thinking about it now, too, resting his head against the window, frowning with his eyes closed.

“You’re on for this, yeah?” Louis asks suddenly.

Harry turns languidly, as though he was falling asleep. “What?”

“This. All of it. I just…” Louis shakes his head. “Feels wrong to ask you to uproot your life for this.”

“It’s hardly uprooting my life, it _is_ my life.” He shrugs easily. “You know who my mum is. I was raised around all this. I’m not some rank amateur.”

“I wasn’t saying that, I—”

Harry touches Louis’ arm. “I want to do this. I’ve always wanted to.”

That captures Louis’ attention. “Really?”

He nods, curls bouncing. “Family business and all that. I’ve only gone to school because my mum wanted me to, you know? Do what she didn’t and all that, and I wasn’t really sure what I wanted anyway at the time.” He grins suddenly. “I told them I landed a serious work-study with a prolific company.”

Louis thinks of Greg. “Not entirely untrue.”

Harry nods enthusiastically. “Little white lies. Bend the truth as far as you can without breaking it.”

“You like a challenge, don’t you?”

Harry grins. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only a little.” _Only to me._ Louis clears his throat as the taxi takes a turn too quickly and he slides toward him, their hands touching in the middle seat. “I just want to be sure you know what you’re getting into. It’s serious stuff, y’know. People take their money—and their secrets—very seriously. People trying to arrest us, people _managing_ to arrest us, people shooting at us…”

“Trust me, I know.” His voice is a bit quieter there and Louis flushes guiltily.

“Shit, Haz.” _Where did that come from?_ He swallows hard, continuing. “I’m so sorry about that. I…I should’ve been paying more attention, I should’ve known that after everything, Grimshaw’s people would think we were connected and find a way to blame us.”

Harry stares at him, eyes wide, confused. “What’re you on about?”

“Gemma. It’s my fault.”

“Did you shoot her?”

“What? _No_.”

Harry shrugs simply. “Then it’s not your fault. You did the best you could. From what I’ve heard and seen, you always do.”

Louis doesn't know what to say to that, overwhelmed by the sudden emotion holding tight in his chest. All he can do is take a deep breath through his nose, turning away so Harry can't see it written all over his face. _I’m falling wildly in love with you_ , he thought desperately, curling his fingers into fists against his thighs. _And I don’t know how to stop it._

Harry’s apartment is not like Louis imagined it would be. It’s crammed full of warmth and life, from the matching kettle and tea cup set he has sitting out proudly in his kitchen, to the enormous tank he has set up in the sitting room filled with vivid fish and the plants covering nearly every surface, leaves and tendrils draping themselves into his life. A ginger cat watches Louis steadily from the back of an armchair, its green eyes unwavering. Louis waves to it uncertainly as Harry packs up a bag.

By the time Harry has finished, the cat’s decided it likes Louis and has allowed him to pat its head, scratching behind his ears. “That’s Fred,” Harry says, smiling at the two of them.

Louis meets his gaze, raising his eyebrows. “Fred?”

“Yeah. Frédéric Chopin.” Suddenly shy, Harry averts his gaze, cheeks turning pink. “Gemma named him.”

“Good choice, he’s quite on. Or was, I guess I should say, since he’s dead.” Louis looks over at the bags Harry’s holding, at the scarf hanging half off his neck, and the stack of books he’s got under one arm, a potted bonsai under the other. “Ready?”

“Let me just write my neighbor a quick note, asking him to look after Fred and my plants and the fish.”

When the note and spare key have been left, they head back out. The cab is still waiting for them, thanks to Louis’ loose fingers when it comes to money, and Louis helps Harry put all of it away, all except the bonsai, trying not to flush like a schoolboy every time their fingers brush. Harry keeps looking at him, Louis can feel it, but he's determined not to look back. He’s made a fool out of himself enough that day.

Or, maybe not.

Louis gives the driver the address of the café he knows where his friend works. Harry glances at him, confused, but doesn't seem to mind. When they arrive, Louis’ friend Stan is waiting outside, holding two takeaway boxes and a handful of napkins. Louis gives Stan a handful of euros and thank him by blowing a kiss, taking the food from him through the window.

“What’s that?” Harry asks.

“Breakfast. I owe you, for the yogurt.”

Harry smiles. “What a gentleman.”

Louis huffs. “Hardly. I could’ve taken you somewhere nicer, somewhere to actually sit down. _That_ would’ve been the gentlemanly thing to do. But this place makes the best English breakfasts and we need to get back to Greg’s.”

Harry shrugs, opening his takeaway box and peering inside. “We’re sitting now.”

Louis smiles, heart pounding as he watches Harry tuck into the food appreciatively. If he was a religious man, Louis might have thanked God in that moment for the creation of Harry Styles, as he had once been sure that they just didn’t make them like this anymore. As he wasn’t, he reminded himself to thank Anne Cox the next time he saw her—maybe flowers or some expensive perfume, something to really show her how much he appreciated the job she’d done. Because as Louis was realizing, there was _no one_ quite like Harry Styles, not in this world or the next.

And he was a goner.

When they get back to the Hideout, both of them full (Harry unable to finish his, but Louis ensures him that it's fine, Perrie and Niall will be happy to divvy it up between themselves), their floors are eerily quiet as they drag all of Harry’s things in, Louis making sure to be extra careful with the bonsai. Its pot declares its name is Bowie. Louis can't stop smiling.

Especially when they both walk into the room, setting Harry’s things down to find that Perrie, Zayn, and Niall are all asleep. Zayn is in the middle, his arms around both their shoulders, while Perrie rests her head on his chest. Niall is curled in against him, arms wrapped around Zayn’s hips, his head on Zayn’s stomach. Niall is holding onto one of Perrie’s hands, the three of them weaved into a triad, a sleeping pile of puppies that has Louis looking on more fondly than he’d care to admit.

“There you have it,” he says quietly, gesturing at them with a grin. “One of the top extraction teams in the world.”

Harry shakes with silent laughter, hiding his face behind Bowie the bonsai, but Louis can still see his wide smile. 

* * *

They finish the job within the next two weeks, bringing Harry up to speed as quickly as possible. It all feels a bit rushed and disorganized, but Harry manages to hold his own, even if he does trip a mine within their mark’s militarized subconscious that has him dangerously close to losing it all for them.

Afterward, though, nobody faults him for it; who in their little band of misfits hasn’t done something stupid once or twice? They have the ladies downstairs order them takeaway and they eat in a lazy circle on the floor, drinking champagne out of plastic cups. Louis swears they were more posh than this once, wanting to live up to what surely must be Harry’s expectations of their lifestyle, but he shakes his head softly, saying not a bit of it matters and Louis can tell from one look in his green eyes that he’s being completely honest. Louis starts to suspect that for all his upbringing and the suitcases crammed with designer labels, Harry genuinely wouldn’t mind if they were doing this in some old shipping warehouse in the East End back home, sleeping on the floor rather than actual beds they’ve set up in corners of their Hideout. That endears him to Louis so much that Louis has to call upon every last vestige of his strength to keep from running his fingers through Harry’s loose, long curls out of the pure affection he feels coursing through him in dizzying, delightful waves.

They laze around for two days before Perrie comes to him, itching for another job. Louis turns to Harry, and Harry, being the bright, energetic young man he is, has a handful already lined up. Louis practically beams, his pride radiating off at him at how well Harry’s working out.

“Harry’s quite the whiz, in’ he?” Zayn asks.

Louis’ smile zaps away and he turns away quickly, pulling out his phone to scroll through it aimlessly, despite the fact that just about everyone he talks to on the regular is in the room with him. “Hm? Oh, yeah, I ’spose.” He shrugs limply. “He’ll do.”

Zayn laughs, shaking his head. “ _He’ll_ _do_. Like he’s just a temp.”

“Well, isn’t he?”

“Lou, he’s brilliant. Even when Gemma comes back, I think we should keep him on. Teach him a few tricks, maybe how to build—”

“He’s brilliant when I say he’s brilliant. Until then, he’s painfully—” _Beautiful, distracting, wondrous_. “—ordinary, average, mediocre at best. Useful, if vaguely irritating.”

“Louis,” the not-so-irritating voice, vaguely or otherwise, says from behind him. “I’ve done up the profile on Leana Singh, if you want to do the Precision Worldwide job for James. She leaves for Malaysia in a week.”

Louis spins around. “Yeah, sounds great, Harry. Thanks.”

Harry nods and smiles, his eyes twinkling in a way that suggests he heard everything Louis said to Zayn. Louis gets himself under control, managing not to crack even as Harry walks away, Niall falling in step beside him, the two of them chatting like they’ve been friends forever.

“Ordinary, average, mediocre at best,” Zayn repeats in a startlingly similar voice. “Right, I can see it. Yeah, we should dump him off as soon as we can, yeah? What a waste of space.”

Louis opens his mouth to vehemently protest because _how dare he talk that way about Harry_ but then Louis stops short, narrows his eyes. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Malik?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, you’re not,” Louis says flatly. “Get back to work, will you?”

Zayn laughs and strolls off, hands in his pockets. Louis stands there for a moment, lost in thought, before there’s a tap on his shoulder. It’s Perrie, the only woman in the world who could get away with wearing sunglasses indoors. She’s wearing a halter top, the butterfly on her upper arm a vivid blue and black.

“Le Pantruche later?”

Louis nods. “You’re paying.”

She smiles.

* * *

The Singh job goes off without a hitch and James pays them a pretty penny. They maintain their under-the-radar operations, with only good friends and people on their level coming to them with jobs and tips. The next one they take is against Palanquin International in Japan and it’s a bit tougher, a little longer.

“We’ll need surveillance for what looks like a month,” Louis says, hanging the undercover photos that Zayn took on the whiteboard with magnets. “He’s got these bodyguards that we absolutely need to watch out for.”

“I’ve got that,” Perrie says. She’s wearing a tank top today and Louis’ notices Harry looking at her butterfly tattoo often during the briefing. He wondered how long it would take for it to click; there’s only so many secrets they have between each other, and Perrie being the former-head of a Russian crime syndicate isn’t one of them. The papers used to call her The Spider. To this day, the name still makes her smile.

Louis starts to protest against that, but Perrie cuts him off. “Gives me the chance to do recon. You want me to convincingly do this, right?”

Louis nods, relenting, while Harry raises his hand.

“Question.”

“Yeah.”

“Do what convincingly?”

Oh, right. Louis forgot. Harry’s only ever seen Perrie do the standard work—distraction,  run interference, crack safes—as they haven’t had a particularly difficult job in a while, they’ve all been so in and out. “I’m a forger,” she says, grinning. “When I’m not cleaning up after this lot.”

“Oh _ha-ha_ ,” Niall says, rolling his eyes. “Like you’ve ever cleaned a day in your life.”

“You missed me in prison, love, I cleaned up a lot of things. Namely people.” Harry gazes at her in shock and wonder as Zayn and Niall laugh, even Louis cracking a smile. His stomach tumbles a bit nervously, though; what if this decidedly violent side of theirs is what sends Harry running? Louis’ always been unapologetically himself, never wanting to change, but now he feels a bit of nervousness about it, a fear. He’s never really had something to lose before.

He doesn’t like that feeling.

After the briefing, Harry hangs back while Louis cleans up, throwing away empty paper coffee cups and picking up wrappers from one of Niall’s many snacks. Harry helps without being asked, piling all their folders and stacking them neatly on a table.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry asks.

Louis can’t help smiling to himself, his back turned. “You just did, love, but feel free to go again.”

He can _feel_ Harry rolling his eyes. “Why’d you become a thief?”

Louis doesn’t answer that for a long time, going over it in his head. When he does finally answer, it’s with a question of his own. “Do you have a totem?”

Harry laughs, sounding caught off-guard. “A what?”

Louis turns around, leaning against the table. “A totem.” When Harry just looks at him blankly, he smiles. “Oh c’mon, your mum or Gem never mentioned them before?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Right, well, that’s why you haven’t been allowed to come with us yet. We need to get you one.”

“What are they?”

“Some other group came up with it a few years ago. It’s a way for you to ensure that you’re not still dreaming. They’re something small, something with meaning to you. You keep them on you when we go under, so that way you can always tell.”

Harry tilts his head. “How?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Only you know. Like Gemma’s was this little brass key she used to hang onto. In dreams, she told me that sometimes the weight changed. But only she would know the true weight of it, so she’d always be able to know for sure whether she was awake or asleep.”

Louis puts his hands in his pockets, feeling his own. He carries it everywhere, whether in dreams or not. It's a terrifying prospect, the idea that you might lose your grip on reality. 

“In dreams, there will always be something off. It doesn’t matter how talented the architect is, there’s no feasible way to get all the right, perfect amount of detail within them. That’s how dreams collapse. When I first started out, I didn’t quite get that; all my dreams would always fall apart, horribly weak, like a…like a bubble that I was trying to hold on to. Every time the bubble touched my fingers, it’d pop, you know? Simon finally explained to me that it was just too much, what I was trying to do. You just have to add enough detail for it to _seem_ real, your mind will fill in the blanks for you.”

“But the totems still feel different?”

Louis nods. “It’ll be something small about them that’s off, that only you’ll notice. That’s how you’ll know whether or not it’s a dream. For example, mine.” He pulls the compass out. It’s a very strange idea, him holding the compass out for Harry to see. He never shows it to anyone. Hardly any of them do. They _know_ what each other’s totems are, but they don’t go around showing them off. They’re surprisingly private things, one’s own connection to reality, a fragile link that could just as easily be severed as it could be protected.

But something about Harry makes Louis do it. Maybe it's his eyes and the way he looks at him, so purely, so genuine. Louis just trusts him in a way that's completely out of character for him and a way that's entirely brand new for Louis to feel for someone who he hasn't worked with for years and years like the rest of their lot. When he looks at Harry, something clicks into place, so easily and so completely, that he feels…well, at home.

 And if that isn’t the strangest realization he’s had in a while, he doesn’t know what is.

“Yours is a compass?”

Louis nods. He feels a bit dazed. “Yeah. In dreams sometimes, it spins around and around, or it points north no matter where I hold it. The weight changes too. It becomes light, like it’s fake or a toy, and that’s how I know it’s wrong.”

Harry takes a step closer, and Louis flinches away from him, bringing the compass in close against his chest. Harry holds his hands. “I wasn’t trying to look at its face, I promise. Just…the writing underneath?”

“Oh.” Louis turns it over in his hand, looking at the names scratched into the wood. He smiles. “My mum, my sisters, and brother. It’s all their initials.”

Harry smiles. “That’s really sweet, Louis.”

But it’s not sweet, it isn’t. Louis makes a face, searching for the words. “It’s a reminder. Of the lies I tell, of why I got in this.” He looks up at Harry. “You asked me why I’m a thief. And it’s because of them.” Harry doesn’t say a thing, just listens. “I grew up on the shit side of town and we were always out of everything, always needing something. My mum was a nurse, but there were five of us, and then seven when the newest babies came along. I had to do _something_. It was a quick fix. I had these dreams of building a better life for all of them, of making something new.” He shrugs. “I just happened to fall in love with it, is all.”

“So they don’t know?”

Louis shakes his head. “No. I managed to pass Simon off as my mentor, which wasn’t completely a lie, and that he paid for me to go to med school. Mum was proper proud of that, which made it a bit worse, to be honest. I…I don’t go home very often. I haven’t been back in almost a year, since I got sent to prison. I just send them money and ask after the kids.” _It’s too hard._ Louis looks at the compass emblazoned with their names. “It’s a—well, it’s an—”

“Anchor,” Harry says, nodding. “To reality, yeah, but your family as well.”

Louis nods. Of course Harry would understand. “And my life before. It’s important, you know? To remember where you come from.” For all the money, international travel, and lavish French dining, Louis always knew he’d just be that trash kid from Doncaster. And that was okay. He’d grown into it now, the same way he’d adjusted to the richness of his new life. He’d found he was quite adaptable.

“Anyway,” Louis says, clearing his throat and pocketing the compass. “That’s me. No sad sack sob story here, not like some of the others in this business.”

“Not much anyway,” Harry says jokingly.

“Oi. We can’t all be pampered rich boys.”

Harry shrugs that off easily. “My mom got all her money doing the same thing you do. I reckon we have more in common than you think.”

“You think so?”

Harry grins. “I know so.”

“Doubtful, Curly. Very doubtful.” _Liar_ , his mind whispers. Louis runs a finger over his compass in his pocket. “So, totem? Anything in mind?”

“Not yet. You’ll know when I do.” He reaches up to run a hand through his curls. “I ’spose I should get to bed. Big day tomorrow and that, yeah?”

Louis nods, watching him carefully. He does seem quite different now, Zayn’s words about the length of time that’s passed coming to him again. If anything, Harry seems more self-assured, and it’s driving Louis absolutely mental. One of these days he’s going to snap, and then he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Make a fool out of himself, probably. As if that’s something unusual in his life.

“Good night, Harry,” he says softly.

Harry smiles at him and says good night. Louis watches him go, feeling more thoughtful than he has in a while. It’s only been slightly less than a year, and somehow Harry Styles has already managed to change his life.

Just figures.

* * *

Louis keeps waiting for it to wear off, but it doesn’t. Each day he expects to wake up and feel free of his Harry thoughts, of the tangle of leaves that have covered his heart since he met him, but he hasn’t. He always tells himself _tomorrow_ , tomorrow he’ll be back to normal. Except that he isn’t. Harry is still as fascinating and beautiful as he was the day before, and Louis is on the verge of having a mental breakdown from how much he wants to touch him, to have him nearby at all times. He’s almost sure Zayn and Perrie know, but they’ll have to torture it out of him. He’s not admitting to _anything_.

Except that he is, sort of, through no fault of his own and without saying anything. Actions speak louder than words and all that.

It happens a few days after the Palanquin International job in Japan. They’re taking a breather to get Harry up to speed on shared dreaming. They won’t let him try it out yet, not without a totem, but it seems Louis helps out with that as well without even being truly aware of it.

It all starts when Gemma calls and FaceTimes with them. They all crowd in to say hello and blow her kisses and ask how she’s been. She laughs at them and says she’s been doing great, that Lou’s been nursing her back to proper health and that any day she’ll be back on her feet and ready to start using her arm again. That’s great news for all of them and they cheer her, to her laughter. She then asks them what they’ve been up to, giving each of them their individual time with her.

When she gets to Louis, however, she just laughs. “I’m not even going to ask, I know what _you’ve_ been up to.”

That sends an ice cube down Louis’ back and he has to carefully make sure his eyes don’t flicker towards where Harry is standing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have any interests! All you do is work, smoke with Zayn, and eat out at restaurants. That’s it.”

“There are a lot of things I’m interested in,” Louis says, sniffing. “Tons. I’ve got loads of hobbies.”

Gemma raises her eyebrows at him. “Well, that’s a load of shit.”

“Isn’t!”

“Name one, then.”

Louis thinks of words, of hobbies he's heard people talk about, picks one at random. “Bird-watching. Love it. Absolutely mad for it.”

Gemma scoffs. “Oh, come off it, you prat. You’ve never bird-watched a day in your life.”

“Have so. Go on, ask me my favorite.”

“What’s your favorite?”

Louis says the first thing that pops into his head, the very first thing he can think of—though, admittedly, it’s got nothing to do with birds. “Swallows,” he says baldly.

Gemma snorts. “ _Filthy_ ,” she says, snickering, shaking her head. “Absolutely disgusting.” She moves on to Harry, to ask him how he’s been settling in, and as Louis moves away to give them some privacy, he can see the grin lighting up Harry’s face and the blush in his cheeks. Louis smiles.

A day later, as Zayn is giving Harry the run-down on totems, not knowing that he’s already heard it from Louis, Harry says, “I’ve got one, actually!”

Louis’ head snaps up, the folder in his lap forgotten, suddenly intensely interested in their conversation several feet away. 

“You do?” Zayn looks confused. “But how do you…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Gemma. Of course. Well, go on then, let’s see it.”

Harry pulls it out of his pocket and Louis leans back in his chair to see around Zayn, to see what Harry’s holding. When he sees it, he momentarily loses his balances and has to windmill to catch the table and steady himself, the legs of his chair slamming back down on the carpeted floor loudly.

Zayn and Harry look over. “All right, mate?” Zayn asks. Louis swears, he just _knows_ , all the time. Him and Perrie getting together was the worst thing to happen to Louis; suddenly, he knows everything in the same way that she always has.

“Yeah,” Louis says, coughing, reaching down to fiddle with a loose thread at the hem of his footie jersey. When they don't have jobs lined up, he dresses the way he wants to, the way he's used to, dropping the facade of Louis the Lavish Con. “I’m great, thanks.”

Except that he’s not. Because in Harry’s hand is a little figurine in the shape of a swallow, blue and bold and finely painted. Louis wants to bang his head on the table until he knocks himself unconscious because Harry might be, quite literally, the death of him. 

Zayn reaches for the totem and Harry flinches so fast, he nearly jolts away from him. Zayn just smiles, nodding. “Good, you’re learning. Don’t ever let anyone handle your totem, otherwise it defeats the purpose.”

“It’s an anchor,” Harry says, and Louis swears he looks over at him where he’s sitting.

Zayn crows about how clever Harry is and how much of a natural he is at this. Louis wants to hit him, just a little bit. 

Harry has a natural affinity for their work, much as he claims to not be a thief, and now he has a totem. So the next natural course of action is to bring Harry into their world via shared dreaming. They start him slowly, just the tiniest of doses, just a room in a hotel, just a floor in a shopping mall. It’s when they bring him outside that the trouble happens. It’s Niall's mind that they’re in, and Louis immediately knows it’s not going to go over well. It's a clear autumn day and they’re at a park. It’s massive, with an ice rink and brightly lit carousel blaring out a calliope, and there are children and parents everywhere, the kids running around, shrieking at the top of their lungs. The dream starts to flicker as soon as they appear and Harry’s turned a sorry shade of green, blinking wildly.

“You all right?” Louis asks, reaching out a hand for him. Louis can picture it, as the same thing happened to him the first time he went under in a really fleshed out world, in one that was big enough for him to explore. It was so much for his mind to handle, the lights began popping and fizzing like fireworks before his eyes, sounds fading in and out like a badly tuned radio, and the colors around him were too bright, too sharp, too _there_. He fainted dead away in the dream and woke up with a splitting headache, only to vomit afterward.

It’s cognitive dissonance, really. Knowing that you’re only truly in one world, one inside the other, your mind in your reality, yet suddenly your mind is presented with the evidence via what you can see and feel and touch, that your mind _is_ reality, and determines that there are two worlds operating side by side instead. It’s enough to make even the most sound psychologist toss their breakfast, and Louis’ genuinely surprised and impressed that Harry’s hung on this long.

Harry opens his mouth, his eyes crossing. “I…I…” He starts, but nothing comes out. His face is downright ashy now, his voice growing fainter.

“It’s okay. Come on, try to breathe. You’re just in a dream. You’ve done that, right? Told yourself that it’s just a dream when the nightmare turns lucid, when you’re just about to fall or die. Haven’t you?”

Slowly, Harry nods. “Just a dream,” he repeats.

“That’s it. Say it again.”

Harry starts to, but then he’s shaking his head _no_ , and he’s fainting. Louis only manages to get under him before he vanishes, woken up. Louis spins around, turning on Perrie. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Don’t fuck with me, you hide a gun in every dream of yours. Where is it?”

She hesitates before she points to a bench near them, painted a bright, shiny green. It’s dappled by sunlight beneath a tree and two lovely old biddies are sitting on it, two members of Niall's subconscious. Louis drops to his knees and reaches underneath, pulling the gun off from where it’s been taped, a Makarov handgun, her favorite. He tosses it to Zayn; he catches it with surprise.

“Shoot me.”

Niall's glance flicks between them. “Lou, the PASIV will run out in just a second—”

“ _Shoot me_.”

Zayn stares at him, frozen. 

“Oh for fuck's sake,” Perrie mutters, taking the gun from him. She doesn’t hesitate, wouldn’t, after everything she’s seen and done. She shoots Louis in the head, thankfully from behind so he doesn’t have to see her do it, and then he’s blinking in the bright fluorescent lights of their office space, sitting up and looking for Harry.

Harry’s not there. However, there's evidence of him left behind: A PASIV needle, several drops of blood clinging to it. Niall comes to a second later, pulling the IV out of his own arm far more gently.

"Did you kill yourself?"

Niall nods. 

"That's a sin for a fine Irish-Catholic, you know."

Niall flashes him two fingers and Louis grins for just a split-second. 

"Harry?" he asks.

"If I was a gamblin' man, I'd say loo."

Sure enough, he and Niall find Harry in the lavatory, bent over the toilet and vomiting profusely. Niall gently pats Harry on the back. "Sorry, Haz, I didn't mean for it to come on so strong. You all right?"

Louis' heart is ringing in his ears in the most uncomfortable way as Harry answers quietly. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Just a bit topsy-turvy."

“Happens to all of us,” Niall is murmuring sincerely, his hand moving in wide circles over Harry’s t-shirt. “Trust me. Even to Zayn, which I know sounds unbelievable, but he was sick for just about a week. Could be the mixture, too. See, I can’t get _real_ Somnacin, that’s brand name and under lock and key by the government, so I have to make it meself. Not even Simon can get the real stuff. And, well.” He shrugs. “Sometimes my batches are a bit rough.”

Harry coughs, leaning up for just a moment. “Maybe…you should try…baking instead.”

Niall laughs and even Louis has to crack a smile at that, though he hides it by passing a hand over his mouth. “Yeah,” Niall says, “maybe I should. Maybe _we_ should. You any decent?”

“Passing fair,” Harry says, before ducking back into the toilet, slender body heaving.

Louis gestures at Niall to go. “I’ve got it from here.”

“You sure?”

There’s a shout from behind them; the PASIV has indeed run out of Niall’s filtered formula, and both Zayn and Perrie are awake. Louis nods, jerking his thumb in their direction. “Get them sorted, I’ll take care of him.”

Louis rolls up the sleeves of his jumper and fiddles with the cuffs of his skinny jeans. He manages to sink down to his knees beside Harry, curling up on the tile floor. The first thing he does is grab Harry by the arm, feeling along his skin down to his wrist.

Harry peeps at him from over the edge of the toilet bowl. “What’re you doing?”

“Looking for—ah, one of these,” Louis says, pulling on one of the stretchy ties Harry wears around his wrists. He pulls one off and gets to his knees, leaning over to gather up Harry’s abundant curls. He stops just before his hands can sink into the luxurious hair, his heart hammering. He’s not sure if, after touching Harry’s hair, he’ll be able to come back from this. This feels undoubtedly like the point of no return.

But in that moment, he really couldn’t give a damn.

Taking a deep breath (through his mouth; the last thing he needs is to inhale vomit-smell and throw up on Harry himself), he gathers it all up in his hands, unable to keep from running his fingers through it, under the guise of checking for snarls, though he knows there won’t be any. Harry’s hair is so well-taken care of that it’s as silky as if he just brushed it, shining in Louis’ hands.

He manages to pull it back from Harry’s face into a springy ponytail, some of the shorter bits falling around his eyes, but it’s at least out of the range of his mouth. Harry heaves some more, fingers tight on the edge of the toilet, and Louis picks up where Niall left off without even realizing he’s done it, rubbing his hand in calming circles. Harry’s back is warm and smooth, shaking beneath him from the effort of his body’s purge.

“Don’t,” Harry says weakly a second later. “Really, you—you don’t have to stay. I’d really rather you not see me like this.”

Louis laughs. “Don’t you know this is exactly what I’m into? Down on your knees, sweaty and red-faced, all breathless for me?”

Harry manages a laugh, though it sends him into coughs and some more heaving; this time, nothing comes out. “Ouch,” he says, glaring at Louis. “Mean.”

Louis shrugs, abashed. “Sorry, love.” Louis realizes that, besides the time with Gemma’s gunshot wound being the hot topic of conversation, it’s really the only time he’s ever apologized and meant it. He _is_ sorry. Sorry for not warning Harry, sorry that he’s even here with them, though that one less so than the first. If he wasn’t here with them, Louis wouldn’t be half as happy as he is.

That hits him ’round the head all at once. He _is_ happy with Harry around—happier, anyway. He’s discovered a newfound joy in what they’re doing, and it’s got to have something to do with Harry. Just by being there, he seems to brighten everyone’s day, and it’s always in the little things. He brings them coffee and pastries in the morning, waking up before all of them; he asks after them and helps out with their problems, no matter how big or small; he jokes with Niall and talks earnestly with Zayn and shares secrets with Perrie, and goes out of his way to include them all in every briefing, every job that they’ve done together so far, all of it without a word of complaint despite how hard their work is, despite the late nights and confusion, the bickering over maze designs and who isn’t pulling their weight, despite the way he hasn’t even been allowed to dream with them until now. Harry makes it known every single day that he cares for them, that he’s happy to be there. He’s just so jovial, just so fucking _bright_ that Louis feels it, feels it every day just looking at him, like a warm ball of light in his chest.

For all Louis’ fear and hesitations, he’s glad that Harry’s there with them. It feels like…well, it almost feels as though Harry was _meant_ to be there all along.

Fate always has had funny ideas, where Louis was concerned. Looks like Harry was just another one of its jokes—only this time, Louis wasn’t laughing.

He looks at Harry, really looks at him. Louis was still waiting for that feeling to go away, the feeling of warmth and admiration, but it hasn’t. If anything, he'd say it's  _growing_ , even with Harry pale and sweating and with a smear of sick on his lip. He shouldn’t have been so endeared by someone with _sick_ on their _lip_ , yet he is. He's endeared by the way Harry sniffles afterward, and the way he hesitantly asks, without saying a word, for a bit of toilet paper by reaching out for it and turning his lovely, large green eyes on Louis. He’s endlessly endeared by him, fond to the point of bursting with the glowing warmth inside him, and it's becoming _such_ a problem—but Louis would never admit to a single, damn, thing.

Louis hands him the toilet paper. He blows his nose, wiping his eyes as well with one corner of it, as they’d teared up from the force of it all. He continues to sniffle, even after.

Harry looks at him. “What?” he asks, his voice thick. “Have I got sick on me?”

Louis nods, a blatant lie. “Yeah, just there.” He rips off another bit of toilet paper, wiping it over Harry’s chin. He’s amazed his hand doesn’t tremble. There’s nothing even remotely there; Harry got it all when he blew his nose. If Harry knows, he doesn’t say anything, just patiently waits, sitting still, for Louis to finish.

“Gone?”

Louis nods. “Gone.” He crumples up the toilet paper in his fist, as some madness seizes him and his tongue lets loose. “I’m sorry,” he blurts.

Harry nods like he understands. “Me too,” he says. “I’m so embarrassed, that was—and you—like, you shouldn’t even be _in here_ , why would you want to—” He shakes his head, blushing. “I’m all gross.”

Louis shakes his head as well. “Impossible. You look great."

Harry rolls his eyes. "No need to lie to me, Louis."

 _I'm not._ "I didn't want to apologize about this—well, I am, I should’ve warned you how disorienting shared dreaming can be. But…I mean about earlier.”

Harry’s lost now. Louis can see him racking his brain, trying to think of earlier, and it’s so cute that Louis just has to watch, at least for a moment. Finally, Harry shrugs. “I dunno what you’re on about.”

“Earlier as in about nine months ago. At…the prison.” Louis looks away, not sure he can face Harry, as the heat of shame colors his cheeks. He goes over that moment in his head every night, wishing he could go back, wishing he hadn’t been so harsh. As time has proved, it hasn’t done any good. Any effort to protect Harry from their world had been dashed as soon as they’d brought him into it.

“I just…” Louis shakes his head. “This isn’t a good place for you. Hell, it’s not good enough for any of us.”

“But you’re here,” Harry points out.

“Yeah, I’m here. But I’m _different_. You’ve got all these opportunities, y’know? Real potential to do good in the world. You were at uni, you were making a life for yourself—”

Harry stops him, gently touching his knee. “Lou, do you know why I was in Milan that night we met?”

Louis swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. Neither of them has mentioned that night together, not since Harry agreed to come on with them. It was kind of an unspoken thing between the two of them: Remain professional. Besides, neither of them seemed quite ready to share it with the other, not-so-subtle members of their team.

Louis shakes his head. “I thought you were on holiday. Break from school and all that.”

Harry smiles, though it’s a bit tremulous; he’s still a bit off after all the vomiting. “I was on holiday, yeah. But I was working that club over with my mum. We do that every now and again. She worries she’s getting rusty, so we pull little jobs together, just teeny cons. I’m rubbish at all that actual stealing stuff, so I usually just keep a lookout, find prospective marks for her. That’s why I said yes to doing this job, to be honest; it’s not so different from what I’ve been doing with her.”

“You…” Louis’ head is having a hard time catching up to all this new information and he blinks, struggling to find the words. “Oh my god,” he finally says. “Was I a _mark_?”

Harry laughs. “No! I swear. She’d gone by then, I was having one last drink before meeting her back at the hotel. But then…well.” He trails off, blushing so prettily that Louis could kiss him right there, despite everything.

“So. You’re a thief, after all.”

“Am not.” He taps Louis’ knee. “The point is, you thought I was just some dumb uni student who was a quick shag.”

Louis’ mouth drops open. “I _never_ thought you were dumb. Talk about total misrepresentation of me.”

“Pot, kettle.” He grins. “You just didn’t know me yet.”

Louis cocks an eyebrow. “And now?”

“Now, I’d say you’re on the right track.” He reaches up, touching his hair. “And you’re ace at doing hair, how’s that?”

Louis shrugs. “Sisters. Many sisters.”

"Not girlfriends?" 

The look on  Louis’ face must be so horrified that Harry laughs out loud, sounding much more like himself. “Don’t even _joke_ ,” Louis says, shaking his head. “As if I would.” He shudders theatrically. “Not my cup of tea, darling.”

“Oh?” Harry asks. “And what is?”

“Yorkshire, two sugars.” Louis stands, offering Harry a hand. “Although an exception can be made for tall, string-bean point men with brown curly hair and devastatingly green eyes.”

Harry takes his hand. “Oh yeah?” he asks, only a little breathless.

“Yeah.” He gently nudges Harry away, towards the sink. “Once they've brushed their teeth, anyway.”

“Wow,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “Way to kill the moment.”

“Oh, is that what we were doing? Having a moment? I must've missed the memo.” Louis' blood races; he loves teasing Harry, loves the way he can quip and snipe, and Harry will fire right back. 

“Keep dreaming.”

Louis blows him a wicked kiss. “Always do, love.”

Zayn arrives, knocking on the doorframe as Harry is bent over the sink, scrubbing at his tongue. “Hey,” he says, coming in and peering at Harry with concern etched all over his face, turning his dark eyes nearly black. “You all right? No breathing problems, anything weird going on? I _told_ Niall to take it slow, but he just gets so excited, y'know?”

Harry looks up briefly and beams, lips smeared with toothpaste. Louis nearly blacks out. “I'm right as rain, Zayn, I promise. Some warning might be nice next time, though."

Zayn smiles. “'Course you are." He ruffles Harry's hair, messing up Louis' ponytail, and kisses Harry on top of his head. Louis imagines slamming the door in Zayn's face.

"Glad to hear there’s a next time," Zayn is saying. "I knew you could do it, mate. Most people fuck off, to be honest. Too much for ’em, y’know?”

Harry nods. “I can see why.”

Zayn promises they’ll keep doing quieter dreams, less busy scenes, and Harry’s back to his usual bubbly self. Louis smiles at him before Zayn suddenly excuses both himself and Louis, pulling Louis away by his collar. Harry gazes after them in confusion, but Zayn yanks Louis away from the bathroom and out of Harry's sight. 

“What the fuck,” he says flatly.

“What?" 

"You went absolutely  _mental_. Asking me to shoot you?” The look on Zayn’s face is one of actual horror. “As if I could.”

“But you know it won’t—”

“Kill you, yeah, obviously. But that doesn’t mean I’m still going to pull the trigger at one of my best friends! You’re lucky Perrie’s made of stronger stuff. She’s killed loads of dudes.”

Louis frowns. “That’s supposed to be comforting…?”

"Don't ever ask me to do that ever again."

"But it's common, you know that! It's quicker, kinder."

"I don't _care_. I'm not going to do it." Zayn takes a deep breath, running a hand over his hair. “The point is, you’re falling for Harry."

 _What...?_ Louis shakes his head. "How did this just become about Harry?"

Zayn ignores that. "It’s obvious, mate, we can all see it. You’re head over ass, and acting like one too, pretending you’re not into him. Why?”

“Why am I falling for him, an ass, or pretending not to like Harry? Which is it?” Zayn’s face darkens and Louis holds up his hands. “All right, sorry. First off, I’m not falling for Harry. That’s ridiculous—”

“You’re acting like an idiot,” Zayn says bluntly. “Stop lying to me, I’m your best friend and I know you better than that.”

“I—”

“Have you slept with him?”

Louis does take a step back this time, frowning at Zayn. “Where is this third degree coming from? Did Perrie put you up to this?”

“Lou, answer the question.”

Louis sniffs, looking down at his nails. “I don’t see how my sexual proclivities are any of your business.”

Zayn swears. “You have. You motherfucker. Are you sleeping together now?”

“Really, how is it _any_ of your business?”

“Louis, I’ve known Harry nearly my entire life. We grew up together; our mums are good friends. Who do you think bailed Anne out of all her sticky situations? And I’m telling you right now, this is _not_ a good idea.”

“What isn’t?”

“You, messin’ with Harry.”

“I’m not _messing_ with him, I’m—”

“What? Because he’s the sweetest kid I’ve ever met, and I swear, Louis, if you break his heart…” He trails off, taking a deep breath. “Look, I love you. You’re one of my best mates. But Harry, he’s not like you. He doesn’t just leave ’em all the time, he’s a relationship kind. And if you’re just here to get a leg over and move on, then maybe you should just move on already. Because there’s no point giving him hope if there isn’t any.”

Louis shrugs. “Who says there isn’t hope?”

There’s a very long pause before Zayn slowly starts to smile. “So this _is_ the real deal, then? I’ve done all this threatening for nothing, because you’re proper in love with him?”

Louis’ mouth drops open, but no words come out.

This time, he does punch Zayn in the arm, and it’s the most worthwhile bruises on his knuckles that he’s ever gotten. Zayn laughs at him the entire rest of the afternoon and no one, not even Perrie, knows why.

* * *

The news breaks the next morning as they’re all eating breakfast at the _chabudai_ low table that Harry bought when they were in Japan for the latest job. Niall is watching cartoons on the telly that he and Zayn “liberated” when Perrie changes the channel. Niall complains loudly for all of two seconds before his mouth drops open.

“Oi, Lou, that’s you!”

Louis, who's in the middle of listening to music that Harry recommended and flipping through a magazine that Harry lent him, barely even hears him. “Of course it is…” 

Zayn nudges him hard from the side and Louis looks up, annoyed. “What? Can’t I just eat in peace without you two—” He breaks off when Zayn points at the telly.

They’re all on it, all their faces for everyone to see, all their recent mugshots, all except Perrie’s; for whatever reason, they’ve chosen one of her old ones from the Russian prison where she once again rose to power, becoming their queen. Unfortunately, it was taken years before, and she still looked very rough and ragged, very young.

She squints at it. “Well that’s just completely unfair,” she says. “Typical sexism of the media, making me look deranged. I looked lovely when we were booked in Paris last year.”

“You did,” Zayn affirms, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

Louis barely hears them. He’s staring at the photo beside his. It’s not like the others, not a mugshot, but rather a blurry picture from a Japanese airport of Harry talking on his cellphone, looking over his shoulder. He was talking to Gemma, Louis remembers. Louis was standing right next to him, just out of frame. It’s not immediately clear what he looks like, and Louis’ thankful for that, but Gemma will know, and so will their mother. Gemma’s picture is not up there.

“What’s it say?” Louis asks.

Perrie turns up the volume. It's in French, but she translates for them. “… _wanted in connection with crimes of industrial espionage and murder, as it appears this so-called team conspired against the late Nick Grimshaw, CEO of Barnett-Brigham-Chadwick-Prime, working with a thus unidentified party. If anyone has any information concerning their whereabouts, MI5 is urging people to come forward at once and help_ —”

Perrie switches the telly off and they’re left to sit there in stunned silence.

“Welp,” Niall says, returning to his eggs and bacon. “Someone call Simon, yeah?”

By _someone_ , he means Louis, so Louis pauses his music and sighs, getting up from the table and traipsing to the far end of their floor, where his bed is, blankets messy and unkempt. He calls Simon and the call is _not_ a happy one.

“What d’you mean, you want us to do a job for you?” Louis hisses. “Did you just miss that broadcast of our fucking faces, plastered all over every major news network?”

He _understands_ , he says in that faux-soothing fatherly tone that Louis has learned means he couldn’t give a shit. But his protection isn’t cheap and it certainly isn’t free, no matter what Louis has come to believe. He’s helped them thus far because he remembers when they were all just kids in his warehouse with them learning the trade with stolen military intel, and he has a soft spot for them. He’s helped them because, through their jobs for others, his company grows. But this business with Grimshaw is nasty. It’s going to take a lot more than a handful of two-bit con jobs and theft for it to be worth the headache Simon will have through it all.

“Fine,” Louis says flatly. “What do you want?”

He wants the impossible. He wants inception.

“I’ll talk it over with everyone,” Louis says, wanting at least _some_ upper hand in the conversation. It’s needless, really; both he and Simon know what the answer is. They’ve got no choice.

Louis hangs up and throws his phone into his pillows, falling backwards on his bed. He lays there with an arm over his eyes.

About ten minutes later, he _feels_ someone nearby, watching him. He doesn’t move. It’s probably Perrie, anyway, about to ask him what Simon says ( _ha_ , he thinks bitterly) and offer him what little comfort she can.

The corner of his bed dips down with the pressure of someone sitting beside him. He smells waffles and flowery shampoo and a hint of cologne, something fresh and earthy, like the scents of nature, of a path in the woods. He moves aside his arm just the tiniest fraction, eyes slitted to see Harry curled up beside him, his long legs crossed under him.

“You okay?”

Louis nods. This is nothing new. Louis learned a long time ago: In this world, everybody wants something. “Simon just being…Simon.”

“What’d he say?"

Louis fills him in. “So not only does he want us to do inception, something we’ve never done—at least, not together anyway, Perrie and Gem have done it—but he wants us to do it against the CEO of Nexus Global.”

Harry’s eyes widen a bit at that. Everybody knows Nexus Global. They own pretty much the entire atmosphere surrounding earth, and their CEO is a woman known for her political and business mind, edged sharp like a blade. Caroline Watson. She’s Simon’s main competitor and the most dangerous person for them to fuck over that Louis can possibly think of.

“So what do you think we should do?”

Louis sighs. “What choice do we _really_ have? This is the only way that Simon will get us all off and keep us from going to prison.” He eyes Harry. “Some of us for life this time.”

“I think you can do it.” Harry shakes his head. “I think _we_ can do it. And inception’s not impossible!”

“No, it’s not, just bloody difficult. Still, we’re all right at our jobs, aren’t we? Not half bad.”

Harry nods enthusiastically. “You’re the best team I’ve worked with.”

That makes Louis smile. “Darling, we’re the _only_ team you’ve worked with.”

Harry shrugs. “Potayto, potahto.”

Louis rolls over, burying his face in his blanket. He knows it’s impossible, but it almost smells like home, like the laundry detergent he uses, the scent of his sisters bringing him handfuls of flowers from outside, and the mingling scents of half-burnt popcorn and their acrid nail polish when they’d spill it on his bed during slumber party movie marathons, the goriest movies he could find. They always buried their heads on his shoulders, in his arms in their fear, and he laughed at them good-naturedly. He’s never missed them more than he does now.

There’s a light touch at his shoulder, hesitant fingertips, a gentle pressure. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Louis makes a muffled reply.

“You’re thinking of your family, aren’t you?”

“A point man and a mind reader too, who knew,” Louis says, rolling back over to face him. The light is dazzling and so is Harry, warm and wondering and worried. “Yeah, I am. There’s no way they’ll miss that picture of me up on the news.” He barks out a short laugh. “Mum is gonna be _so_ pissed.”

“Maybe you should give her a call?”

The mere thought alone terrifies him. All he's ever wanted to do was make her proud and he dreads what her reaction will surely be. “Fuck. I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

_Hi Mum, it’s Lou. Yeah, that picture everyone's buzzin' about? Weird, innit. Well, actually, about that…see, I’m a thief. What they’ve said is true. Not that murder bit, but the rest of it, yep. Yeah, all that about med school and being a doctor was rubbish. Good to hear your voice, though!_

Louis shakes his head. He can’t, not just now. It’s too much, it’s all too much.

Harry understands. Since day one, he’s gotten it, gotten _Louis_. He reaches over and takes Louis by the hand. “Let’s finish breakfast, yeah?”

Louis nods. Everything will be easier to deal with when he’s finished his food. It’s at least partly true. Much in the same way Niall calms when he’s finally eaten, Louis feels more able to face his friends and tell them what it is they’re going to have to do when he’s done eating.

He wipes his mouth with his napkin and sets it down on his plate. “Right,” he says. “Guess who suddenly has to spend the rest of their days hiding out in here?”

Greg calls, offering them anything he can, since it was his job that landed them in the mess they’re in. Louis thanks him; his resources will come in handy. After that, it’s time to get to work, as they’ve all learned the score and have agreed to it, grudgingly. As Louis said though, what choice do they have? Simon is dangling their freedom over them like a treat over a puppy, and their only option is to do one more trick for him.

Louis just hopes this is the last trick, the last job, so maybe they can all finally go home. It’s time. 

* * *

The days pass slowly now, with everyone forced to stay indoors. It’s strange, being forced indoors; Louis hasn’t realized before how often they _do_ go out and do things until he tries to suggest they do things, only to have the words die on his lips. They can’t go for a walk on the Left Bank, they can’t go to that book shop or that café, and they certainly can’t visit one of the high class restaurants that Perrie likes. They can’t even look out the windows through the thick drapes, just in case someone happens to be looking, much to sunlight-addicted Harry’s chagrin, who whines and pouts. He at least manages to get Bowie the bonsai up in one of the windows, so he can get some light. Niall almost pisses himself laughing the first time Harry tries to water Bowie, and has to do so blindly, crouched down behind the wall, reaching up with one grasping hand and listening to directions from Louis on where to pour into the pot and when to stop. Harry just glares at him and tells Bowie not to listen.

The first week passes in a lazy haze. Louis knows they should get to work, but it’s painfully hot in Paris and they’re all so dejected that it’s hard to inspire motivation, especially when Louis feels the exact same way. They lounge around half-clothed, veging out in front of the telly, or playing card games and board games that Harry is absolutely _dynamite_ at, beating them all so badly that it’s embarrassing.

One afternoon they drag down all their mattresses from their beds and all their pillows, sheets, and blankets, and build an enormous pillow fort, bringing in a couple of fans to keep cool. They tell stories back and forth. Perrie’s are the most popular, as she has the most tattoos and scars, and of course, the wildest origin story. Harry’s are the most fascinating, though; he makes things up so that before long, they’re not sure what to believe, the lines between what’s real and what isn’t blurring. Louis thinks Harry just might be in the right business, after all. 

Afterward, they leave the fort up and start sleeping there instead, all of them tangled and piled together. Louis always sleeps next to Harry. If he’s being honest, it’s the only way he gets sound sleep. Perrie’s all sharp angles, even when she sleeps, and though Niall and Zayn are both the most comfortable people in the world, Louis can only find true, actual rest when he’s clinging to Harry. It doesn’t even matter if there’s someone between them; as long as they’re touching, Louis can drift off. Dreaming stopped for him once—cons of becoming a shared dreamer—but now fragments come and go, snippets and vignettes, like a ruined reel of an old film, each night that he sleeps with Harry’s skin touching his.

Louis is finally starting to gather their intel, starting a profile on Caroline Watson and Nexus Global, when Harry joins him one afternoon, flopping down beside him in the blanket fort. Niall, Perrie, and Zayn are having a water fight (that Louis started, though he'll never own up to it), and from the evidence, Harry was just a part of it, too, his face wet and his hair dripping. He shakes it as he sits down and Louis flinches away, shaking his head at him dryly. 

“Have you quite finished?” he asks and Harry grins at him. He’s not wearing a shirt, which is entirely too distracting, and the heat certainly isn’t helping.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks.

Louis shows him. “Simon’s in the process of getting us some fake passports so when we’re ready, we can go, but until then we have to lay low. While we do, I’m going over the profile we’ve got so far on Nexus Global.”

Harry takes the folder from him, flicking through it. “It’s incomplete.”

Louis smiles. “Well, you don’t want me doing your job for you, do you?”

Harry laughs and tosses the folder back to him. “I’ll work on it tomorrow. Hopefully this heat wave will start easing off by then.” He flops backward onto a pile of pillows. “Lou, can I ask you something?”

“Absolutely not.”

Harry grins and does so anyway. “So I know your totem and Gemma’s. And you and Zayn know mine. But am I allowed to know everyone else’s?”

Louis tilts his head, considering. “I don’t see why not. It’s not as though you’re going to run around touching them; at least, you’d better not.” Harry makes a solemn face, placing a hand over his heart, and Louis nods. “Okay. Why not? Perrie’s is easy, it’s her engagement ring.”

Harry frowns, tossing a wet curl out of one eye. “She’s engaged?”

Louis nods. “To Zayn. You didn’t know?”

“But I thought—he and Niall—” He tilts his head to the side, working it through in his head. It’s not exactly a secret, the kisses and pets and intimate glances exchanged between the three of them. Louis has always believed it to be particularly impossible to let go of Niall in any regard, be it friendship or otherwise, so he understands where Perrie and Zayn are coming from. “But wait a minute, she and Niall—”

“Yeah. It’s just who they are. They can’t be without each other, but they can’t be together without him.” Louis shrugs. “It works.”

“So if other people aren’t supposed to touch it—”

“It’s okay if like, someone’s holding her hand. But if she were to ever take the ring _off_ and hand it to someone, it would defeat the point. You’ll notice what she does when we all go down together, she twists it and turns it all around her finger. It’s a bit of a nervous habit for reality, too.”

“Perrie. Nervous.” Harry shakes his head. “I refuse to believe it.”

“Oh, it happens, but that’s the only indication you’ll get. She’s made of ice, I swear.”

“Hm, maybe iron instead,” Harry ponders, tapping his chin. “Or steel. Ice can be broken.”

“Fair point. Niall’s is a little joke between us. He started out as an engineering student, but he used all he learned to build robots and battle them in these weird underground clubs in Germany and the Netherlands. He didn’t finish that degree; he ended up winning some tournament, got filthy rich off the prize money, and used it all to build himself his first lab. He didn’t finish his chemistry degree either, but he spent longer on that major, though I personally don’t think he needs it. For every ounce of crazy he is, he’s a gallon more clever. He could probably do all this without any prior knowledge, honestly; he learns by doing. I’m glad he _does_ know what he’s doing, though; I’ve heard some horror stories about people’s chemists not knowing what they’re on about and getting them trapped down in limbo with no way to wake up, no matter how many times they die in the dream.”

Harry shivers, drawing his knees up to his bare chest and wrapping his arms around them. “My mom knew someone who that happened to. She wanted to go down and get them, but her team thought it was too dangerous." He shakes his head. "So what’s the joke?”

“Oh, yeah.” Louis likes talking about Niall (who doesn’t?) and sometimes loses track of the point in all that Irish-sunshine-rambling. “Well, because he’s a bit of a mad scientist, we always joked that he had a screw loose. So he kind of used that and made it his totem. It’s this big ugly old screw that he found in some junkyard, but he can spin it like a top in dreams.”

Harry laughs. “That fits him really well. And Zayn’s?”

“Zayn’s is his lighter. His mum gave it to him when he passed his A-levels and it's probably his most prized possession." Louis thinks of Zayn telling him he's actually known Harry since they were kids. "I think his is like mine, a reminder of his family. But you probably already knew that." Harry nods. "It’s a very cool platinum skull wearing a real gold crown, and the fire comes out of its head, through the crown. He flicks it open and closed in dreams. He's got a habit of that as well." 

“Hmm. That’s kinda… _hot_.”

Louis just lets his head roll to the left, looking at Harry with the most unamused, dry expression he can manage. “You’re the _worst_ ,” he says as seriously as he can. “Get out of my tent.”

Harry erupts into a rain of giggles, falling backward into the pillows, his hair spreading around his face like a halo of curls. He clutches a pillow to his middle, covering the butterfly tattoo as he stares up at the canopy overhead, two different sheets tied together, one patterned with constellations, the other with leaves.

He’s quiet for a long moment, enough that Louis goes back to what he was doing, before “Louis?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you scared about this? Our chances at pulling this off, I mean.”

Louis is completely honest when he says, “No. We’re a crack team. I’m sure we can pull it off somehow, even if it takes us more than this try. I believe in all of you.” _With every little part of me, with every beat of my coal black heart._

“What are you afraid of, then?”

 _Losing you_. He doesn’t say a word, but just the mere _thought_ of it has him trembling inside his skin, a fist squeezing the insides of his chest, hard as iron and just as cold. He takes a deep breath, closing the folder and scooting over. He ruffles Harry’s curls, loving the feel of them sliding through his fingers like water, like silk. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head over that,” he says. “You just focus on keeping the dream alive.”

“Keeping the dream alive,” Harry says, breathless, when he’s finished laughing and fighting Louis off. “I like that.”

“Good.” Louis gets to his knees, offering Harry a hand. “What do you say? Go another few rounds in Uno?”

Harry grins. “So eager to lose your money?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “What can I say. I have an infinite weakness for gambling, fine dining, and debauching pretty boys.”

“Play your cards right, you might just get all of that.” Harry tilts his head, shrugging. “Well, maybe two out of three.”

“Lucky me. I could go for some gambling and fine dining.”

Harry makes a face at him and Louis chases him out of the fort, Harry yelping all the way back to Perrie who it seems, with both Zayn and Niall kneeling at her feet, has won the water fight. Louis makes a mental note to pay for any and all damages to Greg when this is all over.

 _If_ it’s all over. 

* * *

Simon calls the next day and says their passports are ready. Finally, they're ready to begin. 

With Gemma on her feet again (though unable to use her arm as much), she and Lou become their eyes and ears in London. Harry starts building on the profile Louis began and, thanks to their careful surveillance, and they begin to form a clear idea of Caroline’s life. She works incessantly, is continually surrounded by security and assistants, and likes her coffee black. The only thing they can really come up with is that she takes a flight every two weeks for business, from London to Sydney and back again, a flight of over twenty hours.

“That’s it,” Louis says, snapping his fingers. “We’ll do it then.”

Niall raises a hand, looking around at the others. “Uh. Doesn’t that mean we need to go to London? The place where we're _definitely_ wanted for murder and all that other shit?”

Harry nods. “There’s no other way. It’s closer, and she’s in London right now anyway. She won’t be leaving for two more days. That gives us a month to prepare.”

"Right. So, inception." Louis looks around at them, at their folders and papers and whiteboards and sketches. The next few weeks are going to be a whirlwind. "Three levels down, a dream within a dream within a dream. Ni, you’ve got the stuff for that, right?”

Niall nods, leaning back in his chair, balancing perilously on two legs. “Yeah, I’m workin’ on it. We’ll have to do some tests, make sure it’s good enough, but it should give us plenty of time.” He snaps his gum. “It’s gotta be stable enough for three levels, so it’s going to be strong. We’ll need a kick.”

Louis nods. “We can do a signal before, with music. We’ll just need some in-ears for all of us.”

Harry raises a hand. “Er, sorry, but what’s a kick?”

Louis smirks. “This, Harry, is a kick.” He reaches over and pushes Niall’s chair back. Niall goes toppling, his arms windmilling, but he can’t catch himself in time. Zayn, however, has excellent reflexes and lunges to catch the chair before it falls. Niall thanks him before sending a dryly amused glare in Louis’ direction.

“Ha-fucking-ha, you cunt.” Niall rolls his eyes. “So yeah, that’s a kick.”

“It’s when your body’s equilibrium is messed with,” Zayn says. “You’ll still be able to feel it when you’re asleep. The music is to signify when it’s time to initiate a kick. Because we’ll be three levels down, we’ll need to synchronize a lot of them to get out of there proper fast, like. Otherwise—”

“We’ll get sent to limbo,” Harry says quietly. “Right?” He looks to Louis when he asks.

Louis nods. “But it's not so bad down there, I promise. As long as Niall has his shit together."

Niall cheeses a grin at them. "And I always do." He tilts his head. "Well, usually."

"Very comforting, Niall, thank you for the pep talk," Louis says. Niall flashes him a middle finger and Perrie rolls her eyes at them. 

Louis tells Harry he can pick the kick music and that seems to brighten him again, to keep him focused, before they continue their plotting.

“How’re we going to do this, though? With the plane? We’d need to buy out like, the entire flight, wouldn’t we?” Niall itches his head, nudging aside the goggles he’s got on, his hair spiking around them. “The stewardesses—”

“Flight attendants,” Harry pipes up.

“Yeah, the flight attendants, the pilots, everyone. What if we—”

“It’s already been taken care of,” Harry says, smiling.

Everyone turns to look at him. “Really?” Perrie asks.

He nods. “I thought about that before, when Gem and Lou told me about the bi-weekly flights. So I rang Greg and talked to him. I suggested he buy the airline and he told me he’d always _did_ want to get into the travel business.” Harry shrugs. “It just seemed…neater.”

Niall starts cackling. Zayn gets up and goes to Harry, giving him a hug and a clap on the back. “You’re proper clever, mate, that’s so brilliant!”

Louis catches his eye over Zayn’s shoulder, and Harry’s smile widens. Louis feels the way he did when Niall first synthesized his first proper street version of Somnacin, when Zayn created a dream that was reminiscent of the city of Alexandria at its most prosperous, when Perrie fooled Louis by forging herself into Zayn and then Niall immediately after, convincing him with every one of their mannerisms that she had mastered over time. He’s so proud to have witnessed Harry blossom into this role of his, and so happy that he’s there. He wants to go back in time and kick himself in prison, wants him to take back every word and judging thought he ever had, thinking Harry wouldn’t rise to the occasion and wouldn’t shine in just about anything he put his mind to. He feels more assured of this than ever.

With the details out of the way, the plan comes down to a team effort, a consensus act. Louis and Zayn will design the levels. Niall will produce a stronger version of his formula. Harry will make sure everything goes according to plan, and Perrie will become someone Caroline trusts more than anyone: her head of security and personal assistant, the woman who knows everything about her and makes sure everything in her life runs smoothly. After all, if there’s anyone who can convince her to split up her company and retire while she’s on top, it’s her decades-long best friend and confidante. Catharsis and redemption, Louis has learned, is always the better option than anger and hatred. When he was younger, he might have said differently, but he has to believe all people want a chance at something more than what they’ve got, and for Caroline, that could be an actual _life_. It’s exhausting just hearing Harry, Gemma, and Lou’s evidence on her; Louis can’t imagine actually living it, a life that's all work all the time. She deserves to be who she is, not who the world wants her to be—and if dissolving her company is the way to do that, as well as appease Simon, then they’re going to do it. 

It goes on for a week, the general planning. Then the designing begins. Levels have to be created and organized, always keeping in mind the secret labyrinthine twists and turns for subconscious projections that will no doubt be hot on their trail, especially since, as most leaders in the corporate world are, Caroline’s projections will be militarized. Louis Skypes with Gemma, who always had a good head for design; together, the two of them and Harry throw in some ideas for the level he builds. It’s interesting to hear Harry’s ideas; he’s not much of an architect, but he understands the need for deception, for theatricality, for detail. He sees things that Louis would never have expected, might never have imagined.

They do tests together, just the two of them. It’s the most nerve-wracking thing Louis has ever been through, besides Gemma being shot. It’s such an unusual, frightening thing, to have Harry in his head, walking around beside him. Louis builds for function, to serve the purpose of setting the scene, of establishing the stage for the mark to feel safe and secure the way he was taught. He shows Harry an old abandoned theater, a stone bridge over a river, the downtown of a city and smaller mazes, offices and penthouses and football stadiums. He knows the formula, the ways to trick the mind into thinking it’s somewhere else. But Harry… Harry _is_ something else.

Where Louis has function, Harry has style. Being in Harry’s mind is like walking through a field at midday filled with flowers; he feels lighter just by being there, floaty and bright. Harry’s designs, though rudimentary, are still enchanting. He adds little touches, careful garnishes and details, the little things that Louis takes notice of but they don’t set him off, not the way they might to raise suspicion. He notices them _appreciatively_ , taking in the smell coming off the flowers in the garden Harry’s dreamed up, the sounds of music coming from inside a flat in the city, and the bows painted on the front door of a boutique, the paint chipping into Louis’ hand when he touches it.

They fit together. Their dreams are _made_ to be formed together. Louis can build them, can set up their perimeters, can fill them with the standard imagery, but Harry, Harry makes them _real_ , turns them into living, breathing extensions of himself. They become reality in a way that once might have frightened Louis, but not now, not with his compass whirling in his pocket, and not with Harry pointing things out that he added that he thought Louis would like, skipping down streets and twirling beneath trees with low-hanging branches. It’s like they’re meant to dream together, meant to create. They mesh together like…well, like puzzle pieces, Harry filling in what Louis lacks and Louis establishing the foundation of what Harry needs.

Louis doesn’t sleep for days after they start using the PASIV together. This is nothing like that first time, the first night they met; it’s different now, deeper, flush with the promise of something but Louis’ not sure what yet, though it feels to him like it’s right there on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spoken and remembered.

The plans go on as usual, but Louis feels more restless, more… _outside_ of the process. He feels as though he’s an observer: Watching Perrie make faces in the mirror, working on her hand movements and speech mechanisms; watching Zayn teach Harry about building the dreams and filling them; Niall pouring chemicals into test tubes, combining them in beakers and stirring, injecting it into himself via the PASIV to ensure it works.

But Louis, he’s different. He's been doing some deep thinking in the midst of all their plans, and he’s got all kinds of lip-bitey, unsure ideas that he wants to float past everyone. Ideas involving maybe, possibly, quitting the business after this. Ideas about this being the Very Last Job, the Big Score.

Because for the first time, it looks like he has an end-game. When he started all this, fresh-faced and with no idea what he was doing, just a head full of architecture and dreams under Simon’s careful wing, he had no clue how it was all going to end. His plan was to steal as much as he could, buy his family a nice big house in the country, send the girls to uni, make as much money as possible, and retire at a ripe old age with a crate of cigars and a handful of beautiful boys on some tropical island. Now, though… His priorities, his life, his very _dreams_ have changed.

And it’s all because of Harry.

It’s so obvious, so painfully clear, when they’re in a dream one day. They volunteered to sample Niall’s latest version of Somnacin, but something is wrong from the start. They’re walking down a city street, somewhere like Paris or London. Harry is ahead of Louis, a faster walker with longer legs, and he’s stopping to peer in shop windows, dodging around Louis’ projections to stop and pick flowers from within the planters on the sidewalk, collecting them in a small bouquet. Louis can hear him humming and he smiles, allowing himself to believe that this _is_ real, just for a moment, like maybe they’re on holiday and they’re having just a lovely, leisurely stroll in the afternoon before dinner down by a pier overlooking the ocean, the sun glimmering light across its surface.

But then Louis hears glass break and he opens his eyes. Across the street, a window has burst. He frowns at that but ultimately, they keep walking. Harry doesn’t seem to have noticed, but he wouldn’t, would he? It’s Louis’ mind and only he can really feel something rippling across the surface, subtle as a shadow.

Someone trips right in front of Louis, their steps unsteady, even though they’re a projection of his own unconscious. He stares at them, watching them pick themselves back up and keep on.

The rumbling starts a moment later. Louis realizes too late what’s happening, as more windows shatter their glass, car alarms screaming to life around them on the street. It feels like the earth is rattling, trying to tear itself apart.  _Earthquake_.

Projections go running, screaming, pushing past Louis. Louis grabs for a lamppost, climbing onto its base to see over his projections, to see Harry. He’s up ahead, looking back with a worried expression on his face. Louis waves to him and Harry starts walking back towards him, pushing through the throng of projections. Louis sees their eyes follow him, tracking him, watching him. It hits him tool late what’s going to happen and he starts shouting as the projections converge, shrieking and crowding and pushing, panicked.

“Harry, move!” he shouts. “ _Run, Harry!_ ”

Harry looks up at him at the moment the projections grab him. He calls Louis’ name and then the building before them is crumbling, the bricks and mortar falling away, toppling sideways. Louis can’t even scream, he’s so paralyzed by the sight of Harry disappearing at the hands of his projections.

The cascading building ahead of them blocks out the sun as it falls. Louis doesn’t even feel it when the building collapses on top of him.

His eyes open as he’s in the process of ripping the PASIV from his arm, nicking the skin of his arm. It stings and he’s bleeding but he doesn’t care; he practically falls out of his chair reaching for Harry, who is sitting with his head between his legs, trembling, breathing deeply. 

When Harry realizes Louis is awake, he drops down to the floor and meets Louis in the middle between the two lounges where they’d been reclining. They move at the same time, throwing their arms around each other, on their knees, holding tight. Louis buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, biting his lip to keep from crying. He’s seen a lot of terrible things in their line of work and there will never be a time when the thought of killing someone just to wake them up doesn’t rattle him despite all his brave words to Zayn, but having to watch Harry dragged down, having to see him taken, _hurt_ , before his eyes because of his own projections is something Louis just cannot, will not, take.

“I’m sorry,” Harry’s whispering, his voice muffled, breath warm on Louis’ shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Louis says, stroking Harry’s hair. “It's not your fault, nothing's your fault. I’m here, I’m fine, you’re fine, and we’re both here and okay.”

Harry gets one hand free and jams it into his pocket, and Louis knows he’s feeling for his totem, just to be sure. When he’s satisfied they’re back, he holds Louis even tighter, trembling in Louis’ arms. It’s something he never wanted Harry to go through, the kind of experience he never wanted him to have, because it’s awful and traumatizing and the worst kind of fear to feel. He never wants Harry to be afraid, ever, and _he’s_ the one who’s sorry, the one who wants to go back and fix everything. But the only thing they can do now is forge ahead. They are the dreamers, and this is the terrible world they've made. 

So Louis strokes Harry’s hair gently and whispers to him that they’re back, that they’re home in their own reality, that he’s alive and warm and beautiful and so kind and endlessly lovely and that he’s the best person that Louis has ever known, so charming and sweet and thoughtful and breathtaking, and he loves him, he loves him, he loves him.

Harry has stopped shaking by then. He leans back, pulling away only so he can look Louis in the eyes. “You…you love me?”

Louis grins, feeling wild and adrenalized and completely, hopelessly, _helplessly_ in love. He’s tired of fighting it, tired of ignoring it, tired of denying it. He loves Harry, probably has since day one, and there’s no turning back. There never has been.

Still, he can't resist his mother tongue of sarcasm. “No,” Louis says dryly, “I love your sister. The other Styles.”

Harry screws up his face like that's the grossest thing he's heard thus far and Louis laughs. With the sound still on his lips, still smiling as widely and brightly as he can, he cups Harry’s face and kisses him, their lips fitting together like their dreams, like they were made for it from the start. He has to tilt up into it due to the height difference, even on their knees, but he likes it, likes the way Harry is tall and lanky and can wrap him up just like this, with his hands warming the small of his back and his tongue touching Louis’, warm and sweet.

They break away for just a moment, Harry’s eyes fluttering open. “I love you, too. I wasn’t sure you did, I thought—I dunno, I wasn’t sure—”

"Not sure, really?" Louis taps Harry’s chin, smiling. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”

Harry shakes his head. “But I thought—”

“Harry, you asked me what I was scared of, do you remember that?” He nods and Louis goes on. “It’s that something might happen to you. That I might lose you, that you’ll suddenly disappear from my life as though you were never in it to begin with, and I—I can’t let that happen. That’s why today, this…” Louis shakes his head, swallowing hard. “It was torture. I never want to go through that again."

“Me neither,” Harry whispers. “It was scary. Will I…am I going to have to go down there, for this job? For inception?”

Louis nods, though he wishes he didn’t have to. “We need everyone. But I’m going to be there every step of the way. Nothing bad is going to happen, I promise.”

“I believe you.”

They kiss again, but only for a moment.

“Hey, so how did it—” They separate, turning simultaneously to see Niall standing there. He’s got marks around his eyes from where his goggles have been protecting his eyes from his chemicals. “Oh. Erm. Right. You and— _oh_. Well, everything makes sense now, doesn’t it?” Shaking his head, he blinks and looks between them. “How was it?”

“Wonderful. Harry’s great at snogging."

Niall rolls his eyes. “You’re a proper comedian, Lou, really. I meant the _dream_.”

Harry covers his face with his hands, giggling, and Louis smiles. “Horrifically unstable and one of the worst experiences of my entire life, as a matter of fact. Back to the drawing board on that, Nialler.”

“Fuck. All righ’, I’ll get on it, but only if someone orders takeout, I’m half-dead.”

After that, Harry moves to Louis’ corner of their floor, dragging all of his things over and introducing Louis properly to Bowie. Perrie and Niall don’t say a word, not after the initial find-out, but Perrie does smile at them more often, particularly when they’re together. Zayn, however, can’t help himself.

“I knew it. And Lou?” he says when they’re alone. “Thank you, for not…y’know.”

“Fucking him over?”

“Yeah. I love him, he’s like my little brother.” He hugs Louis. “Congratulations, it was about time you settled down proper like the rest of us.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Here we go. Thanks, _Mum_.”

Zayn kisses Harry on the forehead and ruffles his hair, and they keep on with their work with renewed zeal, Louis and Harry sneaking kisses and little touches wherever they can. Now that he's got Harry, he's never going to let him go, not after that nightmare. Louis knows it’s not smart, it’s not good business or con sense, but he feels on top of it with Harry around, standing beside him, one hand lightly touching his hip. He feels like they just might be unstoppable, invincible, _fireproof_.

Eventually, all of them start testing Niall’s formula. Things start to improve in the following week, but not by much. They go into Zayn’s head to an enormous crater in the middle of a desert, but a dust storm strikes and the formula does nothing to dispel any after-effects, so when they wake up, they’re all coughing from imaginary dirt that still feels so real, eyes red and throats dry. It continues that way for a week and a half. Niall tweaks, they suffer a handful of different abuses, and finally, _finally_ , just in the nick of time, Niall settles it.

They spend their last week doing rehearsals, of a fashion, practicing how it's going to do. Louis hears the kick music for the first time and can't help laughing right in the middle of them rappelling down a canyon wall toward a stronghold at the bottom. Mama Cass Elliot's "Dream a Little Dream of Me" comes pouring sweetly forth like honey, and Louis just shakes his head. How very Harry. 

Finally, they nail it and the days before they're due to leave for London creep up on them. They take celebratory shots after dinner the night before and pile together into their blanket fort, legs tangled, hands entwined. Harry has his legs across Louis’, sitting in his lap, and Zayn is beside them with his arm around them. In between Zayn and Niall is Perrie, Niall’s head resting on her shoulder, Zayn and Niall holding hands behind her head. They chat sleepily about what lays in store for them. Their flight to London leaves early the next morning. Caroline should be leaving the day after and thanks to Greg (and Harry, of course), they’re going to be on that flight.

Louis feels a pressure on his chest as they lay together, talking and laughing together. He's enjoying himself, he _is,_ but something about that pressure is off. It’s almost a pain, as though there’s something coming that he’s afraid of. He can’t stop looking at Harry, can’t stop sitting and watching him, admiring the easy way he’s fit in with them. Theirs aren’t the only puzzle pieces; there’s a piece of the group, too, an extension of the opening left by Gemma that allows them _both_ to fit, both of them to have a place. All Louis knows is that he doesn’t want Harry to go. When this is all over, he wants Harry to still be there, to stick around, to be with him as long as he wants to, as long as he’ll have Louis.

Louis has to make sure that Harry knows that.

He waits until everyone else has fallen asleep throughout the fort. Louis sets himself an alarm for them because he know Zayn sure as hell didn’t, and then, he leans in to Harry’s side, playing with the end of his curls. He smells earthy and tastes better when Louis kisses his neck and licks it quickly, Harry laughing softly and squirming.

“So tomorrow’s the big day,” Louis begins awkwardly.

Harry nods. “Inception. Should be a right good time, eh?”

Louis manages a smile. “I’m hoping so.” He reaches into his pocket, thinking of the night they met, of all the things Louis didn't want to tell him, the walls he'd built up over time still holding Harry at arm's length. He wants to tell him everything now, wants to bring him in that much closer. This is the only way he really knows how. “Look, I was thinking. I wanted you to have something.”

“Oh? What is it?”

Louis takes a deep breath. “This.” He pulls out the compass, holding it out to Harry with a roaring in his ears and a pounding heart. His mouth feels dry, his lips numb. 

Harry’s eyes widen to an impossible size. “ _Louis_. But…if I know…”

“Then you’ll always know where I’m at, in dreams or here. You’ll always have my back.”

Harry bites his lip, looking at the compass hesitantly. He stares at it for so long that Louis isn’t sure he’s going to take it, and his hand starts to shake, starts to pull back just the slightest bit, but before he can take it away, Harry snatches it from his palm quick as anything and holds it against his chest, right against his heart.

“Are you sure?” he asks seriously. "Absolutely sure?" 

Louis nods. “With every single bit of my dirty, thieving soul.”

Harry doesn’t even hesitate; he squirms in Louis’ lap, making Louis _very_ happy for all of two seconds before a knee goes where it definitely shouldn’t, and Louis sucks in a breath. Harry apologizes with kisses along Louis’ jaw before he reveals what all the wriggling was about.

In Harry’s palm is the little bird figurine. It’s made of pretty blown glass, and it’s a swallow, just as Louis joked, just as Harry picked. Louis reaches for it slowly before looking up at Harry. “Are _you_ sure?”

Harry nods profusely. “I trust you, Louis. More than anything. I trust you to know where I’m at, too.” He smiles. “Where we are.”

Gingerly, so afraid he’s going to break it, Louis takes the swallow. He holds it gently in the cradle of his fingers, feeling the glass warm to his touch.

Harry leans his head on Louis’ shoulder and Louis feels his breath on his ear. “When this is all over,” Harry says and Louis can hear the smile in his voice, “I’m going to sleep for a week.”

"When this is all over,” Louis says, “I’m never going to dream again.” He doesn't want to ruin this. 

“Never? Not even once?”

“Well. There might be _one_ dream left.” That one, however, requires a ring—and Louis decides to save it for another day, a day when he can make it reality. 

* * *

 They only hit one little snag during the Final Score: One of Caroline’s projections holding a gun to Harry’s head on the final level in a monastery in Tibet, catching him from behind. They're just about to break in, just about to pull this off, and then... Louis immediately takes a step forward and the projection grabs Harry’s hair, yanking it, making Harry cry out. Louis stops, frozen dead where he stands. 

“Louis,” Harry says. Despite the tears in his eyes and the fear, his voice is steady, that same calm from that day in the airport in Paris, that day he tried to save Louis. “Louis. Look at me, okay?”

Louis does. Harry nods at him as much as he can, the barest jerk of his chin. He blinks slowly, his eyes darting toward Zayn. Louis shakes his head but Harry nods again, more this time, and the projection pushes the barrel of the gun harder against his temple.

“Louis. C’mon.”

He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Zayn?”

Zayn eyes flick from Louis to Harry and back again. Louis almost thinks he'll say no. After all, he did tell Louis never to ask it of him. But this, well. This isn't just him asking. It's Harry as well and it's their chance at freedom on the line.

When Louis looks at him, he nods, resigned. Zayn reaches back into his waistband, pulls out his handgun, and shoots Louis in the head. He hears the shot but doesn’t feel anything, seeing only a blinding white light. The last thing he hears is the second shot. Projection or Zayn, either way, their plan worked out accordingly. Zayn's got it, now. 

And so, Louis wakes up on a beach. Sure, it's a cliché, but it's  _theirs_. 

They stay down there so long, that Louis starts to forget what it was they were doing in the first place. It’s like a vacation, an endless rest after the years of being secretive, of being on the run and fearing he might get caught, the years of _actually_ getting caught and thrown in prison. It’s just what they need. They build a massive firepit out on the beach underneath the stars and even a little cottage there. After all, it’s raw subconscious there in limbo, a blank polaroid of a dream state. They can create whatever they want and Harry’s done it up to perfection, almost the spitting image of the first beach Louis created when they first met.

One night, they’re lying in the sand beside the fire, naked, when Louis says, “Haz?”

“Hm?”

“Did I ever thank you for that day in Paris, at the airport? 

“Yeah, you did. But not the other day, though,” Harry grumbles and Louis pinches his hip, smiling when Harry laughs and jerks away from his hand, curling in against him. "Okay, okay," he says, gasping. 

“Well, this is me thanking you now, then. Again.” He runs a hand through Harry’s magic, wonderful curls. Now _that_ is the stuff dreams are made of. “Thank you, Harry. You’re always saving me. Nobody saves me quite the way you do.”

“That’s lovely, Lou. Proper poetry right there.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Louis says dryly, laughing. “That’s all I wanted to do, you can have off now.” 

“Ha-ha. I don’t think so.”

Within the next week, they decide to go hiking. Louis and Harry have been expanding the island, and it’s huge now, spanning the horizon as far south as they can see. They traipse through the damp jungle, following it until it becomes a simple forest, changing from one to the other in the blink of an eye, something out of a storybook, and then the ground slopes upward. They come out of the line of trees on top of a cliff, the walls a rocky gray stone. Louis can’t help but stare.

It’s a large gorge cut through the middle of the island and at the bottom is a pool of the most amazing blue-green water, catching the light of sun and sparkling off its surface. It looks so inviting that he nearly sighs.

Harry grins. “Wanna jump?”

“That’s like asking if I want to _breathe_. Of course!”

They strip, peeling off t-shirts and jackets, unbuttoning jeans and sliding down their pants, kicking shoes off the very edge of the cliffs and watching them plummet down below. When they’re both naked, they grab for each other’s hands simultaneously, standing on the edge and looking down.

“We won’t die, will we?” Louis asks. He wants to swim for a bit before being chucked back into reality; if they hit the water rather violently, it could put a bit of a damper on that plan.

“We shouldn’t. Probably.” Harry pauses. “Well, I guess we’ll find out.”

Louis counts them down from three and they jump at the same time. Somehow he hits the water first and it stings, like a thousand needles stabbing into him and a cloud of bubbles goes up his nose, but he’s still got Harry’s hand clenched in his and he can see the sunlight just over him through the water, so it’s worth it. He breaks through, gasping, shaking his wet hair out of face. Harry joins him a second later, his curls soaked straight and hanging in his eyes. Louis laughs.

They splash around for a while in the sun. It’s so warm out and the water is the perfect temperature, just cool enough to be refreshing, but not cold, and all Louis wants to do is lay there and never go back. He floats on his back for a while, his eyes closed, feeling the most relaxed he’s ever been.

He hears Harry whoop from the distance and he slips forward back into the water, heart racing, panicked, wondering what it could be—when he realizes it was a happy whoop and that there’s no danger, not anymore, that he needn't be so worried. Everything's okay now, they're done for good. They all agreed on it, the morning of their flight to London. It's time for bigger, better things; better to bow out now while they're on top of the world than wait to fade into dust. 

This is a whole new start and Louis plans to relish every bit of it. 

He swims over to where Harry's treading water outside a small waterfall, at the far end of the gorge. “What is it?”

“Come and see!”

Harry swims beneath the waterfall, dark head of hair disappearing beneath the rushing water. Louis huffs out an impatient breath but he follows with a smile all the same.

A cave opens up before him. Louis’ eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden dimness as the water becomes more shallow, allowing him to stand up. Harry is crouched on a sand bar, poking at something, but Louis can’t see what it is, hidden by his lanky body. He walks over, the water sloshing around his knees.

It’s a chest. It’s old, the wood dark and nearly eaten through by time and the dripping of water from the cavern’s roof, but it’s still intact. The metal bands around it, as well as the lock, are rusted. Like it’s been here a long time, just waiting for them to come along and find it.

Luckily, Louis hasn’t quite lost his touch, not yet. Pulling a bobby pin he knows is hiding in Harry’s wet hair somewhere, he picks the lock with ease and takes it off, tossing it into the sand. Together, they heft the thing open and peer inside.

Sitting on a red pillow is Louis’ watch, the Vacheron Constantin from a year ago. Louis stares at it, shocked, not quite sure what that's doing here or how he ought to react. He’d sold it, his lawyer _had_ , he remembered. That was how she had paid people off to get him out early for good behavior. That was how she'd pay for him to start over, of a fashion. 

He looks over at Harry, who’s smiling. “I don’t understand.”

“Louis, I bought it. You know, when you tried to sell it, even though I’d given it back to you?”

“You…” He shakes his head. “Harry, it was over a _hundred_ _million_ pounds.”

“I know!” Harry laughs at the look on Louis’ face. “Lou, my mum is the best extractor in the world. Or, she was. Trust me, we’re plenty well-off, it wasn’t like I’ve been busking on street corners ever since. I can afford it.” He tilts his head. “And now, thanks to Simon, you can too. Not that I’m selling it back to you. It’s a gift.”

“But why?” Louis doesn’t need it, not anymore. He’s got the pink Rolex Harry left behind. It’s buried in a pocket in one of his bags, wrapped in a scarf. He carries it everywhere with him. Always has.

“Louis, I told you. I’m not a thief.”

Louis almost responds to that, but something huge and monumental crashes down around him, a realization that shakes his world to its very roots. In the con world, there's what's known as "the long game." It typically refers to an operation that takes weeks, maybe months, to prepare and execute, sometimes even years. It takes careful planning and it takes patience. It goes through every stage of a good con, some taking longer than others: the foundation work, the approach, the build-up, the pay-off, the final hurrah. 

In this world, there are only two kinds of people: Thieves and the people they cheat. His entire life, Louis thought he was the former. Now he knows he's nothing more than just another mark who got the wool pulled right over his eyes. 

Louis asked Harry once if he was a mark. Harry said no, but that wasn't entirely true, was it? Louis has been it all along, a victim in the long game laid down by con-man, swindler, grifter Harry Styles. All this time, he's been a thief and nobody, not even Harry, knew it. Until now. It's so obvious, Louis' annoyed he didn't realize it before. 

"But you are," Louis says.

Harry frowns. "What?"

"You  _are_ a thief. You're the biggest, best thief I've ever known."

Harry tilts his head. "Okay, are you taking the piss, because—"

"I'm not." This is something he'd never say to anyone else, because it's cheesy and cliché, but it's just right for Harry in the same way that their beach is perfect, their dream getaway. Nothing is cheesy when Harry is around, and everything is new. "You stole my heart. From day one and ever since then. You're a manky little  _thief_."

Harry looks stunned for all of one minute before he breaks out in a grin, lighting up the entire cave. "I can't wait to tell my mum, she's gonna be  _so_ proud." 

Family business, indeed. 

They stay there in the dream a while longer, but Harry gazes at Louis’ compass one night and he knows, he remembers. They have to go back. Louis isn’t sure how they’ll do it, he’s not sure how they can. Harry’s the one who comes up with it: They’ll swim out as far as they can, next to each other. They’ll sink down at the same time, below the waves, holding each other's hands all the while, never once letting go. 

And that’s exactly what they do.

True to Harry’s word, they sleep for a week after the Big Job is finally done. They spend it at Lou's place, reuniting with Gemma who congratulates them on a job well done. They sleep through the news breaking all across the corporate world: Caroline Watson has retired, deciding to pursue a life of charity and leisure after all her years of hard work, and she’s officially dissolved her company, breaking it into pieces to be bought and sold. Simon gets even richer buying the majority of those pieces. When they wake up, they discover he’s sent them a thank-you note telling them only to turn on their telly. When they do, sleepy and fuzzy and not even sure of their surroundings, they discover the latest news report: Grimshaw’s death was an accident, and they have been officially been cleared, no longer suspects in any of the crimes they were accused of.

Perrie checks her bank account and has to check three more times before she believes it. They've been paid additionally by Simon as well. Silence money, no doubt, to never tell the world of what they know about him. Louis has a feeling they haven't seen the last of him, not by a long shot. 

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. It’s _over_.

Except, it’s not, is it? Louis looks at Harry and he takes his hand, holding it tight. It's just beginning, really. 

Gemma stares at them, eyes enormous. Her gaze darts back and forth, waiting for an explanation. 

“Right,” Zayn says, nodding. “We’ve got a lot to fill you in on, like…so much.”

Gemma just smiles and lets out an blood-curdling shriek. “I _knew_ it! I knew once I introduced you, you’d hit it off.”

“Yeah, got it off, more like,” Louis mutters. Harry nudges him, smile widening. He bites his lip to keep from laughing. Loudly so everyone can hear, Louis says, “I guess it was just meant to be, all this. So yeah, thanks Gem."

“I’ll try to get shot more often.” She rolls her eyes before taking a step toward Louis. “Seriously, though, you’d better keep your head straight on with Harry, otherwise—”

Zayn lays a hand on her shoulder. “No worries, Gem. I already threatened him.”

“Oh. Good.” She beams. “Let’s go home then, shall we? I could do with a cuppa at Mum’s.”

Harry smiles. “That sounds lovely. But first…there’s something we have to do.” He gestures to himself and Louis.

Louis looks at him questioningly, letting Harry pull him from the room and outside, to the sidewalk, both of them in joggers with their hair standing up in every direction. It’s one of the first times in a long time that Louis hasn’t had to wear a suit, and he’s the most comfortable he’s ever been. He’s ready to shed that skin, that old life. He may never have to wear another suit again for the rest of his life and that's the best news out of all of it, he thinks, except for the happy fact of Harry next to him. He’s ready to be the new Louis, the one who loves Harry with all his heart and the one who’s going to be with him, in dreams and in waking hours, for the rest of his life.

Harry pulls out his cellphone. “Call,” he says simply. 

Louis knows exactly who he’s talking about. He sighs, taking the phone from Harry. He stares at it for a long time, not really sure if he can do this, not sure if anything will be the same. It’s only when Harry grabs hold of his hand and rubs his thumb over Louis' knuckles that he has the courage to start dialing the familiar number.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

Louis lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. “Mum.” 

* * *

 

_Present Day_

Louis comes awake slowly, the edges of his vision blurring back into reality. The best thing about Niall’s formula nowadays is how easily it allows one to transition back into daily life, with hardly any residual after-effects lingering around the fringes of his mind. Even now, it’s all becoming clear, everything falling calmly back into place—and of course, the first thing he notices is Perrie standing over him blowing smoke rings, one gloved hand holding a neon pink cigarette in a holder made of bone.

“Your tux’s rumpled,” is the first thing she says.

Louis blinks. Standing beside her is Zayn, looking absolutely dashing and debonair in a cream suit, black-on-black shirt and bowtie making Louis’ eyes absolutely transform into hearts, he’s just _that_ show-stoppingly beautiful. He has to scowl at him for it.

“Excuse you,” he says, pointing to the primly tailored slacks and jacket, at the gold cufflinks and coiffed hair. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to look better than me today?”

“Impossible,” Zayn says around his own cigarette, his voice a low murmur. He sucks in a breath, the end brightening. Louis is about to retort with half-hearted anger at best, when Zayn removes the cigarette and smiles so sweetly that the words melt on Louis’ tongue. “Because you look proper nice, Lou, you really do. The best.”

“You do,” Perrie agrees, and she smiles. “Even if you _are_ rumpled.”

“Well,” another voice says, cracking through the air. “What do you _expect_ when they have to go off and do this?”

Louis leans back in his chair, a hand over his eyes. He has two seconds of relief when someone is slapping his hand away. He looks up into the face of Gemma. She’s beautiful in teal, just like Perrie, and her lips are stained a soft pink. There’s a single white plumeria bloom pinned into her curled hair and she’s never been lovelier.

Even with that scowl storming over her eyes.

“Guess what time it is, Louis. Just guess.”

“Time for me to, dare I say it, get a new watch?”

Zayn coughs out a plume of smoke, laughing. “That one o’ Harry’s liners?”

Louis grins. “That obvious?”

“Painfully,” Perrie says, rolling her eyes, lips twisting into a smirk.

“Quarter to seven,” Gemma says impatiently. “Quarter to seven, and you two are up here in the attic playing…dream footsies!”

“ _Dream_ footsies?” Louis laughs, covering his mouth with a hand immediately, trying to admonish as much as he can in front of her. He doesn’t want to make her mad, not today. “I’m _sorry_ , Gem,” he says, as earnestly as he can. “Really. Truly, I’m sorry. We’ll be out in a second, I promise.”

She snorts. “Have to wake him up first.”

Louis turns his head to the left, to where Harry is reclining beside him. He hasn’t gone off yet; his kick is delayed. Their hands are entwined; it’s something Louis is so accustomed to, he hadn’t even realized it. He smiles.

It was Harry's idea. He figured they were getting married, y'know—why not take a little trip down memory lane, back into their memories? It's breaking rule number one of shared dreaming, building on what you've experienced and what you know. You should always build new places, imagine new worlds. But there's no way either of them could get lost down there in dreams, forgetting their reality, not with how they look nowadays.

He touches his arm through his tux sleeve, finger moving over the area where he knows the compass has been inked into his arm. Instead of north, it points  _HOME_ toward his anchor, his guiding light, the place he always wanted to end up. Harry, too, even sleeping and even in his black jacket and skinny jeans, a silver heart earring hanging from his ear, has his totem permanently etched onto his body, making it a part of him. On his chest, currently visible thanks to the unbuttoned white silk shirt, are two sparrows facing each other in flight, eyes locked on one another. They say that old sailors used to get that tattoo, used to show it off as a mark of them traveling over five thousand miles across the ocean, all around the world. Louis understands that for sure; he's been everywhere in the last four years, everywhere but home, and for the last year, Harry was there beside him. For some, it'd be too soon, but Louis knew almost the moment he met Harry: It was meant to be.  _  
_

So this time, they'll be the sparrows facing each other at the end of a long, tiring journey. This time, they'll be going home.

Louis is seized with an impulse then and he leans forward over Harry, pressing a kiss to his lips. Not a moment later, he watches the kick transition, watches Harry slowly come awake the same way he did. His long eyelashes flutter over his rosy cheeks, and his green eyes slowly focus on Louis. He smiles. 

"Well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty," Louis whispers. 

Harry's grin widens. "Thought you weren't a prince?" 

"And I thought you weren't a thief, once. How misguided we've all been."

Harry laughs, leaning up on his elbows to kiss Louis. When they part, he takes out the needle, sitting up beside Louis, looking around at their gathered friends and family in the room. Somewhere in the distance, Louis hears Niall laugh and his lips twitch.

"Are we late, Gem?" 

She nods, but she can't be mad at Harry of all people, not today of all days. 

"Sorry."

"It's fine," she says, tearing up already, looking up to try and stop herself from crying. "But it's time to go." 

Louis sits back down quickly, reaching for the hems of his slacks. He rolls them up to his calves—just in case. 

"Ready?" Harry asks Louis, grabbing his hand. He's wearing the Vacherin Constantin watch that once belonged to Louis.  _Such a thief_ , Louis thinks fondly, catching a glimpse of the pink Rolex on his own wrist. There will never be anyone as camp as them—and that's just the way Louis likes it.

"If you are," Louis replies.

"Is that a challenge?"

"Of course not, darling, why ever would you think so?"

Harry grins. "Race you to the altar?" 

Louis laughs. "You're on, Curly." 

And so, Harry and Louis get married on the beach at sunset in front of friends, family, and the open sky wide above them. Both of their mums give them away, and every single one of Louis' sisters is a bridesmaid with Gemma and Perrie, all but Doris, the baby. As their guests shower them with plumeria petals when they walk down the aisle, officially married now, all Louis can think is that he no longer needs dreams, not the ones of old, anyway, chemically-induced and prone to falling apart. Who would? 

Real life— _his_ life, with Harry—is the happiest, strongest dream he could ever ask for. 


End file.
